


30 Day OTP Challenge

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Drabbles, Femlock, First Kiss, Fluff, Genderswap, Halloween, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenlock, i should really put some sort of warning in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 23,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my version of ericandy's 30 day otp challenge, mostly unconnected. This is my first fic ever written and i'm a wuss, so the rating's not going to go any higher than T. I'll try to update every one or two days. Shameless fluff. i apologize for nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i do not own any of the characters in this story. i just enjoy making them do stuff.  
> and i'm sorry for not getting very creative with the chapter titles. i do editing, take prompts and other shit. just message me on tumblr (no need to follow) brokentoysniper.tumblr.com

This would be the last one. Jim had promised.

Sebastian still loathed it. At this point, Jim was just kinda showing off. It had been a few weeks now. The girl was completely disposable, and her purpose had been fulfilled.

Jim was on another date with that  mousey little child who passed herself as an adult. And of course, Jim always wanted his right-hand man trailing in their footsteps. Ya know, in case something went wrong.

Why Jim needed one more day was unfathomable.

But Seb never questioned it. He stirred his coffee (black, of course), and idly checked his phone. But he didn’t really need to check his phone, but people would be suspicious if he didn’t. Dressed in civilian clothes, a rusty red t shirt and jeans, he faded into the bleary background. It was exactly what he needed to do. Just sit there and look pretty.

She leaned over the table, almost spilling her own drink. It was some concoction with way too much cream and syrup.

Jim-from-IT warmed his hands on his own drink and smiled at something the girl had said. Sebastian couldn’t help but muse - Jim-from-IT and Molly Hooper were alike. Too much alike. They both had anxious demeanors, and were a little immature. But watching them function as a couple was certainly a spectacle. It was sad, verging on pathetic. Neither of them made any moves. They could barely even make eye contact.

Sebastian thought of the almighty Jim Moriarty, who wore suits that cost more than Seb’s best guns and strapped semtex to civilians to toy with a certain sociopath. Jim Moriarty, who blew up a four-star hotel to off a single target and had locked Seb out of the flat for over two weeks when he missed a shot (Seb still blamed Henrickson. That son of a bitch was on perimeter duty, and he was the one that made the error. But he was also the one that ended up at the bottom of the Thames, and Seb got to go back home.) Jim Moriarty, who kicked (literally, kicked) Seb out of bed every morning for sleeping in too late and could not choke down a single goddamn thing in the morning unless Seb forced it down his throat.

Sebastian held his cheap cell phone to his ear, using it as an excuse to growl into his microphone without looking like a lunatic.

“Watch it, boss, or a certain mortician could end up in my crosshairs before she makes it home tonight.” Sebastian tried to imagine what Jim (Moriarty) would have said, had he been able to iterate a response. Probably a sly grin, accompanied by something along the lines of, “is somebody jeauloussssss?” or “down, tiger.” Seb would give his left foot to hear that irish lilt again, instead of some shaky lines that ended in, “alright, love?”

He watched as Jim-from-IT chuckled. Poor Molly, she must have thought the chuckle belonged to something she had said.

A pleased grin flitted across her face as Jim-from-IT took her hand, laying it flat across the table top.

It was all Seb could do to keep from snarling.

Jim was definitely showing off


	2. Cuddling

His phone lit up on the side table. Sebastian reached over, hovering his hand over the device a moment before picking it up. 1 new message.

Tea? There were no initials, but Sebastian knew who had sent it. And it wasn’t Jim Moriarty. Sebastian sighed, discarding the book he was reading. He would have to finish it later.

He fished his keys out of the bowl next to the door and sauntered out to his car, knowing that Jim would be waiting in the coffee shop. Probably in the same seat that he had been fidgeting in earlier that day, holding a frail hand with Barbie pink nail polish in his own.

Sebastian suspected this was Jim-from-IT’s way of making it up to him, for having him shadow Jim for the better part of two weeks as Jim drooled over some poor mortician. Sebastian hated every moment of it, but he knew James Moriarty would be back soon.

 

 

oOo

A tiny bell tinkered as he shoved open the door. A cursory glance around the room revealed Jim, dressed in a dark cardigan and twiddling his thumbs on a marble top table, seated across from an empty booth. The aroma of coffee and pastries filled the air as Sebastian neared him. He knew his order would be nonexistent, for he was just humoring Jim.

Sebastian was about to slide into the seat across from Jim when he felt a hesitant tug on the hem of his t-shirt. He looked down at the man who was blushing and looking away, a tiny smile playing on chapped pale lips. Sebastian rolled his eyes, hoping Jim would catch it and scold him, before sliding into the empty seat next to the small body.

Jim scooted over and immediately put his head on Seb’s shoulder. Sebastian had no idea what Jim was playing at, but he went along with it. When you work for James Moriarty, you learn to take everything in-stride.

He lifted his arm and wrapped it around Jim’s shoulder, noting the boniness of the most menacing man he knew. Sebastian reached down and grabbed the paper cup, raising it to his lips and taking a long swig. He almost spit it out, having to stifle a laugh when he saw the death glare the small man nestled in his shoulder was shooting him.

“What’s wrong, love?” Sebastian asked, emphasizing the trite term of endearment. He heard the ringing on the cash register, the sound of the oven door opening and closing, and the tinkering of the bell behind him. Sebastian was still unsure as to what made his boss choose this place. But then again, he was unsure as to what drove his boss to make any of his decisions. That was just what made James Moriarty, James Moriarty.

Jim opened his mouth to issue a complaint, and then he suddenly shoved his nose into Sebastian’s neck, smiling and running a hand through Sebastian’s dirty blonde hair. Sebastian almost let out a yelp, before he saw who was standing before him.

“Jim?” a small voice choked. Jim’s head shot up, guilt written all over his face.

“M-m-molly,” he stammered. It was all Sebastian could do to keep a straight face. He shot the quivering girl the coldest look he could muster, but she only had eyes for Jim.

“He was right,” she squeaked. “Sherlock knew, even before…before… how – how?” She let out a cry of frustration. She looked at Sebastian. “I’m-I’m sorry,” she stammered, and then fled. The bell tinkered one last time, and Sebastian knew the girl was gone.

Sebastian erupted with laughter. The whole show had been so ridiculous. He looked down at Jim, and was pleased to see Jim looking right back at him. Jim Moriarty.

“Come on, hon, it was a little funny,” Sebastian laughed.

“It was necessary, love.” Sebastian stopped laughing.

“Right,” he mumbled. Jim leaned back into his shoulder, surprising Sebastian. But, when you work with James Moriarty, you learn that everything is a bit of surprise. He leaned his head against Jim’s, and felt a foot pressure his own. Seb smiled, reaching down for the paper cup again.

“I will turn you into shoes,” a voice hissed at him. Sebastian retreated.

“It’s good to have you back, boss.”


	3. Watching a Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made them teenagers because WHY THE HELL NOT.  
> also, sorry guys, but i am american. i have no idea what slang people use in places other than america (i still can't figure it out over here.) feel free to leave some pointers in the comments. no, seriously. comment. on anything. tell me a story about your cat. just leave me a comment.

“Seb, _please_?”

“No, Jim, it’s two in the morning and we have school in five hours.” Sebastian retorted, rolling his eyes. Jim scoffed.

“I’m sorry not all of us can function on 30 minutes of sleep each day,” Sebastian added, sighing. His parents were out cold, and he knew from experience only could be woken by a volcanic eruption, and definitely not the sounds of the random movie Jim had grabbed from his towering stack in the corner of his room.

“What did you even pick?” Sebastian inquired.

“Oh, just some American slasher movie.” Sebastian was quiet for a moment.

“So you’re staying the night, then?”

“No, I’m just on my way out,” Jim drawled. Sebastian didn’t say a word. It was the fourth time this week that Jim hadn't gone home. He was beginning to think that his shabby house _was_ the boy's home.

“Please, Seb?” lilted a surprisingly small voice. Sebastian took a moment, weighing his options. A movie might put them both to sleep, and the one Jim had picked out was particularly scarring. Sebastian did like the thought of a terrified Jim clinging to him.

“Alright. Just let me get changed.” They were both dressed in their school uniforms. Jim had loosened his tie while Sebastian had thrown his off, and they both had shedded their blazers in a crumpled heap and rolled up their shirtsleeves. Jim claimed to abhor the uniforms, but Sebastian suspected that it secretly pleased the kid to see them both looking so sharp.

Sebastian padded upstairs and quickly disrobed, throwing on a holey _Black Sabbath_ t-shirt and sweats. He stopped in the bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth before heading back downstairs.

“Alright, Jim, let me - “ Jim turned to look at him. Sebastian blinked.

“Jim, is that my fucking shirt?”

“Oh course, Sebby, I don’t have any clothes here.” His voice was dripping with  innocence. Sebastian had to admit, the usually menacing kid looked pretty freaking cuddly in pants and his Bee Gees tee (why did he still even have that shirt? Sebastian had never really listened to them. When had Jim found the time to dig it out of his drawer?)

“Alright. Lemme see whatever the hell it is you pulled.” Jim tossed the disc at Sebastian, who caught it and stuck it in the player. He dimmed the lights and hit play before curling up on the couch. Jim stretched, arching his back like a cat, and fell onto his side, putting his head right on Sebastian's lap. Sebastian shifted uncomfortably.

“Jim?” Sebastian prodded, wanting to point out that the couch was L-shaped and more than big enough for the both of them.

“Mh, hmm?” Jim murmured.

“Nothing, babe.” Maybe this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It certainly ranked above asking Jim to shift over.

The screen lit up, and the opening credits rolled. Images of rumpled diary pages filled the screen, flashing the word Se7en. Jim yawned. _If he falls asleep_ , Sebastian thought, _I’m turning this shit off._

Thirty minutes into the movie, Jim shifted his head, and Sebastian jumped out of his skin.

Halfway through, Sebastian had started to nervously run his fingers through Jim’s hair as a distraction. When the next body was found, he almost ripped out a chunk. He didn’t miss Jim’s grin of satisfaction.

In the last few minutes of the movie, Sebastian had guessed what was in the box. He still grabbed Jim’s arm when he saw the severed head, his knuckles whitening.

“Sebby, that hurts,” the teenager whined. The hand loosened, leaving half-moon scars on Jim’s pale arm. Sebastian looked down at him with eyes the size of saucers.

“Don’t you ever fucking turn out like that, okay, you little psychopath?” Sebastian demanded. The way he said ‘psychopath’ made the word more like a term of endearment than a mental disorder.

“Seb, don’t be obvious,” Jim insisted, “I’d  never be so sloppy. I’d get someone else to do the dirty work.” Sebastian groaned.

“Someone like me?” he asked.

“Hmm... maybe. It depends.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure whether or not he liked that answer.

“I didn’t like that ending at all,” Sebastian criticized.  “Why would he turn himself in? Just to toy with that stupid little detective? I’ll never understand Americans.”

“You missed the point of the entire movie,” Jim contended. “What’s the fun of the game if you can’t play?”

“Alright, ya git,” Sebastian jeered, “just promise me you’d never do anything so...obvious.”

“Alright, tiger.”

* * *

“I can sleep on the floor,” Sebastian offered. At this point, he was just going through the motions. Jim glared at him.

“Alright,” Sebastian sighed. He climbed under the sheets and felt Jim wiggle next to him. Sebastian thought of the the second death in the movie, the one where the man was chained to his bed and just barely kept alive for over a year. Jim snuggled up next to him, and Sebastian gripped him a little bit tighter. His thoughts wandered over to that damn movie again, and he ran his fingers though the raven hair of Jim’s head.

“I’m not going to end up like that psycho,” Jim mumbled.

“But - “ Sebastian protested.

“I have you, tiger.” Sebastian relaxed minisculely and buried his nose in Jim’s hair. He was still uneasy.

“You planned this, didn’t you? So that I’d - “ Sebastian mused.

“Yes. Now hush. As you pointed out, there’s only an hour before we have to get up again.”

“We could just play hooky, like you do every week.” He felt Jim smile against his side, and Jim threw an arm possessively around his torso.

“You totally planned this.”


	4. On a Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who's read this and thought it was the least bit interesting!

They had met at the library. That, of course, had been Jim’s doing.

She had the whole ‘sexy librarian’ thing going on. Jim thought Sebastian would like that. (Sebastian did not. He preferred Westwood, psychopaths and consulting criminals. But he also preferred having a fucking fantastic job, and staying in the number of pieces he was currently in.)

Jim had given him the books to check out. Jim had made sure that Sebastian had the cute lady at the register, and not the elderly scandinavian women working the same shift.

And Jim had given the orders.

Sebastian had been briefed earlier that day, in the windowless room with the one-way glass. It was the very same room that held interrogations. Sebastian, having conducted a fair amount himself, already knew this. He knew where (or rather, _who_ )  the dark red stain on the bottom of the metal chair came from. He knew exactly how long a 180-pound man could spend in the room before the oxygen ran out. And he knew what happened to people who said no.

“The girl herself - “ a glance at papers “Hollie Wilkes - is harmless,” he had been assured, “but her cousin is - shall we say, coveted? Keep her out a few hours, maybe take her back to your place. Just long enough to search her flat.”

And that’s how ex-military sniper Sebastian Moran ended up in the St Pancras library, holding _Leaves of Grass_ by Walt Whitman (Jim had checked - Hollie had checked it out four times during her employment.)

The queue was short, and Sebastian was checking out within moments. Jim had told him to be cute, to be charming, to be a little bit immature. To be irrefutably un-Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t mind. He had myriad practice being un-Sebastian.

“That’ll be due on May 3rd,” Hollie said. She held out the book. Sebastian thought a moment, then grabbed it, putting his hand on top of hers.

“Er, sir,” Hollie tried, blushing. Damn, the resemblance was uncanny. She reminded Sebastian of a certain mortician he’d rather not think about.

“Sebastian,” he corrected with a dazzling smile.

“Sebastian,” she said, “I, uhm, need to return to my work.” Her face was full of color, and  Sebastian glanced over his shoulder at the empty spaces behind him.

“I don’t see anyone in dire need of attention,” he noted. She grinned, biting her lip.

“You’re cute,” she said derogatively. He didn’t like that. “Now please remove your hand.”

“You first,” he countered.

“But my hand is under yours.”

Sebastian chuckled.

“Someone doesn’t like playing along,” he droned. Hollie sighed. She may as well have sprouted a white flag from the top of her head.

“Alright, I’ll play along later, just let me get back to work.”

Sebastian cracked a smile.

“Dinner and a movie?” he asked. “I’ll pick you up at, say, seven?” One checkout and hastily-scribbled address later, Sebastian was driving back to his and Jim’s flat. It was four o'clock, and he was ready to beat him senseless for making him go on this deranged date.

***

They sat in the back of the theatre. They were seeing some cheesy chick flick that had premiered a month ago, and there were only two other couples occupying the theatre, both seated closer to the screen.

Halfway through the movie, another patron entered, sitting right in front of Sebastian.

The man’s phone rang, emitting Sympathy for the Devil by Guns N Roses. Sebastian grinned in the darkness, and everything clicked into place. It was one of his favorite songs, and Jim always teased him about it.

Sebastian watched as Jim answered the phone.

“What? No, of course not,” he said very loudly, in an American accent. “Hmm? Lemme check.” Jim pivoted, his eyes sweeping over Hollie and Sebastian (Seb was suddenly very aware that his arm was still draped over the back of her chair. He didn’t move it.)

“Oh, just some mousy bitch and her blonde boy-toy,” Jim said into the phone. Sebastian vaguely wondered what kind of question was supposedly asked. Hollie gasped.

“Sebastian,” she stuttered.

“Hush, love, I’m trying to watch the movie.” Her mouth snapped shut. But Jim wasn’t even close to being done.

“Yeah, she’s got a bow in her hair. I know,” Jim continued. Hollie’s hand flitted up to the pale cream bow that had probably seemed like a good idea when she left her flat, but now just felt like a droopy chastity belt for her head.

“Yeah, she’ll probably put out for him,” Jim snarled into the phone.

“Sebastian, _do something._ ” she hissed. Sebastian was up to his ears with this date. He reached forward, and plucked the phone from Jim’s small hand.

“Sorry, mate, he’s a little busy. He’ll have to call you back,” Sebastian said. He didn’t hear a voice on the other end of the line. He crushed the phone, letting the pieces drop one by one to the sticky floor of the theatre.

“Theatres have shitty reception,” Sebastian said to Jim. He grabbed Hollie’s hand, and led her out of the theatre, out of the parking lot, and into his car.

“Thank god, that guy was such a twat. Where are we going?” Hollie asked.

“I’m taking you home,” Sebastian answered. He noticed the displeased look on Hollie’s pale features.

“Mind taking me back to your place?” she asked, blushing and smiling at the cluttered ground. “Just for coffee,” she quickly added. Maybe Hollie and Molly weren’t _that_  much alike. Hollie was definitely more manipulative. It was evident that the dainty librarian was just an act.

“If you insist,” Sebastian complied, not wanting to throw things off. Blindly, he hoped that Jim would react exactly how he thought Jim would react. But, then again, there was really no way to tell how Jim would react. Most of the time, not even Jim knew how Jim would react.

***

Keys jingled in the lock, and giggling could be heard from outside the door. Sebastian threw it open, and was pleased to find that the lights were still on. He walked over to the coffee maker and flicked the red switch on the top, Hollie still clinging to his arm.

The warm aroma of coffee grinds filled the air as he pulled them from the second shelf on the cupboard. He swiveled, ready to pour them into the filter when he came face to face with  Jim. Hollie froze. Jim was wearing a neutral mask and holding a chipped ceramic bowl of oatmeal.

Sebastian stepped forward, leaving Hollie in the dust.

“Sorry about your phone, hon,” he said, snaking an arm around Jim’s waist. He swooped down, pulling Jim closer and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Jim smiled up at him.

“So, how do you take your coffee?” Sebastian asked, not removing his eyes from Jim.

“I’ll, uh, grab a taxi,” he heard Hollie say. Her heels clicked against the linoleum as she fled the flat.

“No more dates,” said Jim, his hands tugging on the hem of Seb’s t-shirt,

“I don’t know, I was starting to enjoy them,” Sebastian murmured.  “I think I like a jealous Jim.”

“Tell me about how boring she was,” Jim muttered.

“She told me she was on a diet, and wasn’t allowed to eat popcorn. She showed me pictures of her two cats, and she picked the movie.”

“Oh, that’s just _dreadful_.”

“She didn’t know who Rob Plant or Sherlock Holmes were, and she undoubtedly would not have known what a Barrett M90 was.”

Jim kissed him again.

“She wasn’t fond of Westwood, she didn’t listen to classical music, and she was a librarian, not a consulting criminal.”

“So I’ve ruined you for bachelorettes everywhere?” Jim said, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“Congratulations, boss.” Jim’s grin widened.

“That’s just the way I want it.”


	5. Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be their first kiss ever. sorry i couldn't be any more creative.

“Stay. Put.”

“Stay put /what/?”

“Stay put, /sir/.” Jim smiled at Sebastian’s submission.

“There’s something off. I’ll clear the house, and /then/ you can move in,” Sebastian commanded. This had started as a routine meeting in some conference room with only four attendants -  Jim, Sebastian, some high-ranking executive and his bodyguard. When they got to the building, it had been deserted. So of course, Sebastian was on edge.

He had only been working for Jim for a few weeks, and didn’t want to mess up. He didn’t want to know what it was /like/ to mess up under Jim’s watch. The man was menacing and insidious, an utter good-old-fashioned villain.

Though he’d never admit it, Sebastian had a type. Vivacious curves, blonde hair, leather jackets, /female/. They all caught his eye. Jim Moriarty was, as he was to everything else in life, the only exception.

Sebastian darted into the spacious, and empty, office, .22LR raised and safety off. He cleared all four corners and the closet before motioning with his hand, expecting Jim to saunter through the door immediately.

Sebastian was alone.

He ducked his head through the doorway, into the hall. He looked left, right, and then he heard it. Heavy footsteps, coming from the floor above him. Too heavy to belong to the small man in an opulent suit.

Moving silently, he crossed to hall and dashed up the stairs. He stopped at the top, counting to seven (because nobody ever expects seven) before crashing through the door, guns ablazing. He looked down at cream-colored carpet, and followed the matted path down the hall, where it ceased in front of room 214.  This time, he counted to six before ramming his shoulder into the wood. The lock popped, shattering uselessly, and Sebastian almost fell into the room. He looked at Jim, sitting in a chair with his hands bound to some sort of empty rack , before spinning to his left. He caught the assailant - around the same age as Seb, dark hair, shabbily dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, definitely /bulkier/, probably assumed he had the upper hand - running the butt of his gun into the guy’s head before getting a fist thrown into his jaw. Sweatpants stumbled backwards as the second assailant revealed himself from behind the door, grabbing Seb’s throat from behind. Sebastian rammed his back against the wall, sputtering and trying to shake the doorman loose.

When he saw Sweatpants turn to Jim, Sebastian’s hands fell from the doorman’s and he quickly raised his pistol, firing two shots into the mans back. He then threw his chest to the ground, and the doorman went sailing over his head. The doorman finally let go, and Sebastian put one of his steel-toed boots in his chest. The final shot fired that day rang throughout the empty building. Sebastian ran a hand through his hair before turning back to Jim.

“You had /one fucking job,/” Sebastian shouted, reddening. “I have half a mind to leave you here!” Jim stared at him coldly.

Sebastian let out a puff of air, and crossed the room. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a switchblade and sawing through to tough rope.

“if you /ever/ endanger yourself like that again, I’ll - “ Sebastian didn’t know how he would finish that sentence. But it didn’t matter, because he never needed to. Because at that moment, Jim Moriarty, standing at half a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter than his sniper, pushed Sebastian against the wall. Jim crowded into his personal space, silencing the man. His forearm slashed across Sebastian’s neck, and his other hand rested on the cotton-clad chest. He stared at Sebastian with a look in his eyes cold enough to turn a tropical storm into a fierce blizzard. With one arm, he felt the sniper swallow quickly. With the other, he felt the jackhammering in the man’s chest.

Jim grinned, and stood on his tiptoes.

He kissed Sebastian, starkly on the mouth, and didn't let go for a long while. Both hands moved to Sebastian’s waist, and Sebastian was kissing him back. Jim broke it off, dropping back onto the balls of his feet, and Sebastian swooped down, following his mouth. Meaty hands grabbed the back of his neck and mussed up his hair, but for once, Jim didn’t give a flying fuck.

Sebastian tasted like stale cigarettes and old spice. They stayed like that for another few luxurious moments before Sebastian lifted up his head, breaking the kiss. Sebastian ran his thumbs over Jim's cheekbones, wiping away the spatters of blood from the men still lying in the middle of the room. Jim tugged on his belt loops, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.

“Don’t even /think/ I’m going to forget about all this,” Sebastian said. Jim smiled.

“Neither am I, tiger.”


	6. Wearing Eachother's Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for nothing.  
> GUYS I NEED PROMPTS FOR SOMETHING ELSE IM DOING just send them to my tumblr i wrote down the url in the notes on chapter one. and thanks to everyone who has stuck with me this far in!!

Sebastian shuddered, keeping his breathing still and even. His face remained a neutral canvas, but on the inside, he was dying.

He almost broke. It was knowledge of the consequences that held him back.

He glanced at his rolex. Only a few more minutes, and he would be free.

“ - he will take out the banker with an MK 47, leaving through the staff kitchen, which will be empty because of the evaluation, and disappear.” Jim asked, staring coldly across the table. He was in his interrogation room, this one lacking the mysterious giant mirror looming ominously on the wall, and the man seated across from him was quavering from fear.

Jim’s eyes narrowed.

“The banker will be stored in the freezer, undisturbed until some poor busboy decides to pick up a new bag of frozen peas. Have I made myself abundantly clear?”

“Crystal,” the man stuttered.

“Good. If you fail, I will make make a keychain out of your teeth.” The man nodded before taking flight, fleeing the room. He stumbled past Sebastian, leaning cooly against the wall, before dashing down the hall to make arrangements.

The door closed with a thud, and Sebastian exploded.

Not literally.

But very close.

His sides heaved with deep laughter, making the walls quake.

“Babe,” he said breathlessly, “you look _ridiculous_.” Jim ignored him in favor of staring down at his phone. Sebastian crossed the room and tugged on the wooly jacket draped over Jim’s miniscule frame, helping him shrug out of it, and ran his finger along the tag. He knew there was a _Moran_  printed in magic marker, faded with age, just above the name of the manufacturer.

Sebastian’s dark red t-shirt hung off of Jim like a dishrag, and Seb stifled a leftover chuckle.

“Was there a point to all this?” he asked, as Jim finally broke his attention away from his phone.

“I don’t need hair gel and an expensive suit to strike fear,” Jim said, standing.

“Is that _all_?”

“Mh...it smells like you. But I’m never doing this again.” Jim poked at a hole in the hem, and fingered a stain. “This shirt needs to be incinerated.” Jim craned his neck, looking up at the sniper expectantly. Sebastian took the cue and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jim. Jim relaxed and tugged on the hem of Sebastian’s shirt.

Sebastian put his hands flat on the smaller man’s chest before clenching them into fists, filled with dark fabric, and ferociously ripping it apart and allowing himself to be pushed against the wall. Sebastian finally broke the kiss for an ingenious remark.

“I’ve been meaning to bin that shirt.”


	7. Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, yeah, yeah. i took some liberties. but come on, you know you love it.

God.

Why did Jim have to dress like that? He was wearing a cream shirt with three undone buttons on the top, an open red cardigan, and ripped jeans. His hair was messed up, and - /god/ - it was positively endearing.

But Sebastian knew Jim didn’t dress that way for him.

Jim sometimes liked to disappear.

Usually it was only for a few days, a week at the most.

But Sebastian hadn’t seen the criminal in almost a fortnight, and he was past worrying. He played all the things that could possibly gone wrong in his head, over and over. Maybe Mycroft had finally scrounged up enough evidence to lock him up. Maybe his enemies had bested him. Maybe he had a meeting with Sherlock, and decided he wasn’t coming back. Maybe he had finally pulled the trigger.

Sebastian knew that last one was impossible. If Jim Moriarty was going to off himself, he would do it in the flashiest way possible, and take out half of London with him. Or at least a certain consulting detective and his pet doctor.

So when Jim came through the door, dressed like /that,/ it was only /natural/ that Sebastian picked him up by the shirt and slammed him into the wall, making the room quake. He followed it immediately with a hungry kiss, pinning the smaller man’s wrists to the wall behind him.

Only after Sebastian heard the small whimper, alien to his boss, did he retreat.

“Jim?” he asked softly. He took a look into big brown eyes, scared and shivering, and that gave him more of an answer than words ever could.

He took a step back, turning towards the kitchen.

“Wa-wa-wait,” said the smaller man, hesitantly giving a tug to the hem of Seb’s shirt.

“Sorry, mate, I’m taken. Call me when you find a consulting criminal.” Sebastian walked into his room and grabbed a duffle bag lying on the ground, stuffing it with cloyhes. He returned to the front room to find thst the quivering man hadn’t moved an inch.

Jim’s eyes widened in fear as he saw Sebastian leaving. Seb looked at his bag, then back at Jim.

“I’m just heading to the gym,” he said reassuringly. "There’s leftover Thai in the fridge.” He bit his lip. “It’s for a friend of mine, but you can have it. I’m not sure if it’ll still be good by the time he gets back.”

Sebastian left. He hoped that by the time he got back from the gym, sweaty and spent, his consulting criminal would have returned, and the trembling stranger would be outta their lives forever.

*******  
** **

Sebastian’s heart shattered when he entered the flat and smelled the pungent aroma of Thai. He also noticed the sound of the television, long forgotten, blaring from the back of the flat. He immediately saw that the small man had been lulled to sleep by an episode of Doctor Who, and was currently residing on the couch.

*******  
** **

A quick shower later, and Sebastian was beat. He considered leaving Jim lying on the couch, then decided he’d rather wake up to a stranger with a familiar face than no face at all. He knelt down, gently tapping the man’s forehead.

“Wake up, er, Jim.” Sebastian wasn’t actually sure what this man was calling himself. Jim stirred, blearily opening his eyes.

“Carr...carry me?” He asked. Sebastian sighed, then nodded. He picked Jim up like a baby doll, entering their shared room. He laid the small man on the unmade bed (the last thing on Sebastian's mind while Jim was MIA was making a freaking bed that he was just going to tear up in his sleep) and pulled off his shoes, tossing them in a pile, before pulling back the covers and joining him.

Immediately, he felt small arms encircle his waist, and a warm body snuggle up against his side. Even when he was someone else, Jim was still clingy as fuck.

Sebastian closed his eyes. For the first time since he had met Jim Moriarty, he went to sleep without knowing who he would wake up next to in the morning.

*******  
** **

Sebastian dreamed he was flying. Fittingly, he woke up mid fall, hitting the ground with a thud and hitting his head on the nightstand.

“Jim, what the /fuck/?”

“Morning, tiger. You’ve overslept.”

Sebastian looked up, preparing to yell at the selfish man for pushing him out of bed.

He bolted up, and in one swift motion he had Jim pinned against the wall. He kissed Jim, the /real/ Jim, and was pleased to feel the ferocious man returning the passion.

“That last guy was a such a prat.”

“I know, tiger. He was dreadfully ordinary.”

“But he was a great kisser.” Sebastian beamed as Jim’s face dropped, before pulling Jim in for another kiss.

“Don’t worry, tiger, you won’t be seeing that bloke for a long time. I promise.”


	8. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i'm sorry. i am just so very sorry. i know jim and seb would never act like this. I'm not sure what crack is, but i'm pretty sure this is it. i was lazy, so i used a story i already wrote with similar characters and slightly altered it. i know, dishonor on me.

“Boss, I’m going out.”

“Alright, Sebby, let me grab my coat.”

“Really? I’m just running to Tesco.”

Sebastian looked down at the criminal, who was wearing an expression of nonchalance.

“Sebastian, we just had a kidnapping scare, I’m not ready to let you out of my site just yet.” Sebastian understood. Earlier that morning, Jim had received a ransom text from a withheld number with a picture of Sebastian tied to a chair. Less than fifteen minutes later, Jim had personally stormed into the foreclosed building and unhesitatingly shot the four men standing, before taking the gag off the wiggling sniper and smacking him hard across the face. Twice.

***

“Come on, Jim, we’ve got to find this stuff.”

“Like a scavenger hunt?” Jim asked, bouncing around the isle. He almost bumped into a display, sending a few cans of whipped cream tumbling to the ground.

Seb stooped to pick up a package of cream cheese.

“Push me!” he heard a cheery voice call. He turned to see consulting criminal Jim Moriarty sitting inside the cart, looking very much like a three year old.

“How did you even / _get_ in there?” Seb mused. Jm beamed as he grabbed the handle and pushed.

“God, you’re heavy,” Seb muttered. He stopped near a pyramid of cans, grabbing broccoli soup. He turned around just in time to see Jim running off in the opposite direction.

“Jim!” he called, sprinting after him, ignoring the glares from the chubby woman clutching a can of baked beans to her chest like a life jacket.

He skidded around the corner to find Jim stuffing his mouth. The pungent aroma of freshly baked tarts filled the air, and Seb looked down at the open tray containing stale cubes of coffee cake and old muffins.

“They had free samples,” Jim said guiltily, spewing crumbs. Jim grinned, and Seb could see bits of food stuck in his teeth. He selected a piece of what looked to be pumpkin bread, and started munching on it.

“Freezer isle?” Jim asked, dashing away before Seb had time to iterate a response. Jim jumped on the cart, riding it like a scooter until she reached the home of ice cream.

He opened one of the doors and wrote “help me!” on the inside. Sebastian, who had finally caught up, grinned.

“I see you’ve been practicing your backwards handwriting,” he noted.

“Only when necessary,” Jim responded “We’ll be in town for a while, we may as well have some fun. I haven’t been shopping in - “ he counted his fingers, stopping at ten, “ - a while.” Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

“So this is Jim Moriarty’s idea of fun,” he said skeptically.

“Well, there’s one more thing we need,” Jim continued, ignoring the question, “and I’m not sure it’s on your list.” Jim fished the scrap paper he’d scribbled on out of Seb’s pocket, earning a dirty glance from a middle-aged woman in an alarming pair of mom-jeans. Sebastian noted them, staring them down and rubbing a hand along Jim’s stomach.

“And what is that, hon?” Sebastian asked, dropping his gaze to Jim.

“I don’t know yet, tiger, we’ll just have to find out.”

***

“Really, Jim?”

“Really.”

“I don’t even know how to slice it up.” Jim rolled his eyes.

“Then / _learn_ , Seb.”

“But... a / _pineapple_?”

“It’s great on pizza.” Sebastian paused, weighing his options. Jim / _was_ in an adorable mood, not as harsh as his regular self but not as jittery as his alter-ego.

“Alright,” he caved. He took the fruit and placed it in their cart. Jim clapped, and pecked Seb on the cheek. Sebastian wrapped his arms around Jim and pulled him into a real kiss, one that was totally inappropriate for the middle of a grocery store.

"Come on, tiger, there are  _people staring._ "

"Do you really think i give a flying fuck?"

"Not really." Sebastian smiled into the kiss.

"Come on, Sebby, lets go, before they kick us out."

"For what?"

"Public indecency."

"Thats exactly what I'm hoping for." 


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda long, so i'm thinking of publishing it as its own story. sorry if the dialouge seems a bit forced, its based off the song "hyacinth house" by the doors. and not much mormor in this chapter, this is their first meeting. but more teenlock!!

“If we change the 63th nucleotide from adenine to cytosine, and the process of transcription copies it as guanine, then the instructions will be given for the amino acid tyrosine to build the protein instead of phenoline...”

“Silence,” the slimmer boy sneered, stopping abruptly. The younger obeyed, awaiting his next instruction. “I’m sure that someone’s following me.” The slimmer boy stooped, pretending to tie his shoe, and gave a cursory glance at his surroundings.

He immediately noticed the blonde teenager in the dark hoodie and ripped jeans quickly ducking into the bookstore on the opposite side of the street, a dozen yards down.

He quickly stood and dashed towards the store, leaving the other boy to take off his glasses in confusion.

The boy, dark hair and still dressed in his school uniform, slid into the store, blending in. No one so much as glanced his way. He quickly spotted the other boy, examining an H. G. Wells book.

“You wouldn’t like that one,”the shorter boy said, peering over the other’s shoulder, “the ending’s too predictable.” The blonde boy jumped, and the book clattered as it hit the ground.

“I’m James,” he said, “and I’m wondering who you are.” The blonde boy hesitated.

“Sebastian Moran,” he finally said, his voice rough. James cut right to the chase.

“I’ve seen you around,” James continued, slowly orbiting Sebastian until they were face to face. “School, mostly. You play lacrosse.” Sebastian stood up straighter, attempting to use his height advantage to intimidate the smaller boy. He failed.

“Your turn,” James urged. “Explain why you’ve been following me.”

“Well, you looked dreary.” James blinked. If he was surprised, he hid it in the depths of his persona.

“Why would that concern you?”

“A mind like yours, you don’t want to see what it can do when it’s dreary.” James turned away. He was disappointed. He thought maybe, just maybe, there was one kid left in the entire school who hadn’t heard of the prodigy named James Moriarty. But his disappointment was fleeting.

“Also, you hang out with Brian all day. /That can’t be much fun,” Sebastian continued. James chuckled, low, catching Sebastian off guard. Truthfully, the taller boy wasn’t sure James had it in him.

“True. Brian bothers me. I need a brand new friend, who doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, I’m having a couple guys from the team over later today. Wanna come?” James pondered his answer. Why the hell would he want to spend his afternoon with a bunch of sweaty jocks, making small talk?

At that moment, the door bust open, and a short boy with buck teeth and crooked glasses stormed in.

“Jamie?” he asked, looking around. Jim grimaced.

“Alright, Sebastian. I’ll be there at six.”

***

Brian had gone home in tears that night, after James calmly explained every single detail as to why he would never amount to anything.

“You’re terrible at public speaking,” James had said, “and your leadership skills are atrocious. Your view on genetics is askew and riddled with potholes, and Rosalind Franklin already detailed your thesis, /half a decade ago.” If one good thing came out of that night, it was James never having to deal with that creep ever again.

Sebastian had witnessed the entire event. He had done nothing to stop it. Of course, Brian could be a tad bit annoying, but he did not deserve the wrath of James Moriarty. Simultaneously, Sebastian knew it was not his place to interfere. This feud was between James and Brian, and getting caught in the crosshairs meant feeding the tiger Sebastian kept well-hidden. He couldn’t risk it.

After Brian had fled, he turned to James and clocked him upside the head.

“Why the hell do you act like that?” he asked. James took a moment to form a coherent answer, still a little woozy.

“To please the lions.”

Sebastian didn’t ask any more questions after that.

***

“A couple of friends” turned out to be four, and three of them didn’t show up. As Sebastian explained, two of them had had their weed confiscated and were currently under house arrest, and the other one was home studying.

“If Nate fails chemistry, he won’t be able to play any sports. And he’s our goalie,” Sebastian had explained with a grin. “No one else on the team is crazy enough to take /that position.”

****

When Dominick had entered the room to see none other than James Moriarty hanging his legs over the side of the chair across from Sebastian, the first words out of his mouth had been, “why is this creep here?” Sebastian had almost punched him for his snide comment, but James responded before things climaxed.

“I need a brand new friend who doesn’t trouble me.” Dominick looked at him like he was a hand grenade with the pin pulled out.

“Alright,” Dominick said, before collapsing in the only open seat left.

James sat silently on the couch while Sebastian and Dominick tossed around a lacrosse ball. James’ eyes followed not the ball but the boys’ movements, reflexively cradling the ball to secure it in the pocket before sending it sailing back across the room.

“I heard Shawny’s pretty good, they have a five-oh so far,” Dominick said.

“It’s because the captain’s father pays the wages of the ref,” Jim said absent-mindedly. The ball hit the wall with a thud before hitting Sebastian on the side of the head.

“Ow,” he said, rubbing his temple, “what was that for?”

“I fucking knew it,” Dominick said, completely ignoring Sebastian.

“How’d you know that?” Sebastian inquired, lightly tossing the ball back to Dominick. James turned to the blonde-haired boy.

“It’s amazing what a few minutes of research can yield,” he said. “For example. Dominick,” he said, turning to the other boy, “a watched pot never boils.” Dominick flushed.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked, feeling isolated.

“His eyes keep straying to his phone,” James explained. “He’s worried about someone. There’s a tan line on his wrist where a piece of jewelry used to be, probably of sentimental value due to the fact that you are definitely not the jewelry-wearing type, which means he recently pawned something off. Pawned it off for quick cash, to pay off someone else’s debts. Drug money, perhaps? He’s worried about a certain /someone’s addiction. It’s not one of his friends, he’s accustomed to their habits. It’s not a girlfriend, he hasn’t sent or received any texts. Which leaves the only option, a younger sibling.” Dominick was pale as a sheet at this point.

Sebastian briefly wondered exactly what James’ thought process was, before his thoughts returned to his teammate.

“Is it Tommy?” Seb asked. Dominick slowly nodded. James opened his mouth, and caught wind of Sebastian’s death glare.

“There’s still time. Go home to him,” James said quietly. Dominick stood up hastily and fled the room. The sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by the sound of an engine revving as the emotional teenage driver raced home.

Sebastian let out a breath of air.

“For a minute there, I thought you were going to say something positively nasty,” he commented.

“I was,” James answered.

“Then what stopped you?” James looked down at the discarded lacrosse stick.

“How are you going to bring two of those to school tomorrow?” he asked, avoiding the question.

“I’ll stick one of them in my bag. I do it all the time. Now tell me what’s up.” James was amused. He had only really known this boy a few hours, and Sebastian was already able to pick up on James’s mood swings better than his own parents.

“Whatever do you mean, dear Sebastian?” The blonde boy rolled his eyes. The ball thudded as Sebastian threw it against the wall repeatedly, deprived of a partner.

“You know very freaking well what I mean,” Seb said. James feigned innocence, curling up in the giant armchair he was seated in. Sebastian glanced at him, noticing how the boy eerily made himself appear so much younger in such a simple action.

“Are you really going to make me guess?” Seb said. James was still silent. “Oh, come on, I don’t know /that much about you!”

James didn’t asked how much he knew.

“Please,” he said instead, “tell me exactly what /you think makes me so...what did you call it? Dreary?”

“Well, that’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?” Sebastian asked, not skipping a beat. “James Moriarty is just so great and talented and successful that no one will just let him be him.” The pounding ceased. “It’s enough to make anyone bleary.” James was silent. He wanted to allow Sebastian a few moments to think he was stunned into silence.

“That’s a very good guess, beleive me,” James finally said, “but not quite right.” He stopped, letting Sebastian formulate another guess.

“Ya know, James doesn’t suit you very well,” Sebastian said. “It sounds like an old english duke, and occupation that I’m sure would not suit you at all. And Jamie sounds too juvenile. I have a cousin named Jamie, you know? He’s six years old. Last time he came to visit, he spilled chocolate syrup all over the carpet. You can hardly see it now, but it drove my dad mad.” Sebastian smiled at the memory, looking fondly at the pale fuzz. “He’s quite the little dickens.”

“Well, what else would you call me?” James asked, amused at Sebastian’s sudden interest.

“How about Jim?” James sat up, obviously pleased.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sebastian continued. “That has a nice ring to it.”

“I like it,” Jim said.

“It’s a new you.”

“I need a brand new friend, who doesn’t need me,” Jim said, watching as the corners of  Sebastian’s mouth broadened.

“What’s all this talk of brand new friends? And I think I qualify for that position,” he said, tossing the ball at Jim lightly. He was surprised when the boy’s hand snaked through the air, catching it just before it would have hit him in the chest.

“I need a brand new friend, in the end.”


	10. Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you don't mind that its a little late. also, I'm looking for betas. if you're interested, please leave a comment!

The plan was infallible.

Jim, adoring every aspect, had really outdone himself. Mostly due to the fact that the spotlight was trained on him.

Sebastian supposed he should be worried - Jim could become another man at a moments notice. The Jim that sat almost in his lap, clinging to Seb’s sleeve and wiping his nose continuously, was the same man who could slice a hostage to ribbons and play jump rope with his intestines.

“I, I shoulda kept an eye on him. I sent him out the door this morning, ya know? And I knew he was just going a few yards away, to place where Cherry Hill meets Blunts Hollow. He’s done it a million times, ya know? So, so I stopped making sure he got there. And then an hour later, I got a call, saying he wasn’t in school. And then, and then this / _thing_ shows up in my mailbox. And I just can’t live with myself!” Jim concluded his performance by throwing his head onto the larger man’s shoulder, sobbing.

Sebastian tried his best to wear a mask of solemnity, but it was difficult when he knew his boss was deliberately ruining his favorite button-down.

The police officer hovering over them, a tall brunette with worry lines on her forehead and soft brown eyes, awkwardly placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder and fed them some two-bit line heard on every buddy-cop movie ever made.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jane, we’ll find him.”

Sebastian thought it was quite a performance, on both their parts.

Jim and Sebastian had apparated at the station that very morning, Jim a blubbering puddle, Sebastian clutching a brown paper bag as though it may grow teeth at any moment and bit off his hand. They had been swarmed with officers asking them to repeat the story of the kidnapping, verbatim.

Jim had taken the liberty to explain the whole point of the masquerade to Sebastian earlier that morning.

With the whole department out looking for Thomas Jane, a blonde-haired boy who loved to play with trains and had a bright future, no one would take a second glance when a certain overstressed lawyer puts a gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger.

Sebastian thought it was a damn good plan. However, he never liked it when Jim willingly got tangled up in legal affairs. Since he knew Jim would be placing himself in the center of the web of government officials, Sebastian had specifically asked to take part in the act.

But, when Jim had handed him the a paper bag and instructed him to let the police open it and cherish the look on their faces, what he didn’t ask  was why the small ear was still warm.


	11. Pajamas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES I AM AMERICAN I APOLOGIZE. also, i couldn't bring myself to put them in kirigumis. i just couldn't. on a lighter note, i updated consecutively!

He heard it.

Sebastian groggily sat up, blindly banging his hand around on his nightstand until he found his phone. He looked at the glowing numbers on the clock - they read 3:14 a.m.

_If this is another fucking text about wombats, I will cut him up and -_

One word filled the screen, five little letters that made Sebastian’s blood run cold.

 _Tiger_.

Large feet slammed onto the ground. He didn’t even bother putting on a pair of jeans, or a decent shirt. He grabbed his leather jacket and a handgun, stooping to pick up the rifle he kept attached to the underside of the coffee table as a precaution before running out the door.

A few weeks into Sebastian’s employment,  Jim had been very insistent on the two having a codeword to relay to the other if either were in danger. It convenient, seldom used and inert. It worked well; Jim only called Sebastian “tiger” when there were no prying ears around, and Sebastian never felt the need to use it as a pet name.

Though this was a first for Jim, Sebastian had used it twice.

He deplored reminiscing about either incident.

“I’ll pick up Italian on my way home, tiger,” he had said into the sleek black phone as two thugs had flung open the door. Upon seeing Sebastian looking through his crosshairs at his target, they moved in posthaste.

Jim had stormed in four minutes later, and he and Sebastian were the only two to leave the room breathing. Both had souvenirs from that encounter - Sebastian had a new scar running up his nose, and Jim had snagged an incisor that he had personally knocked out.

The second time, Sebastian had sent Jim a text identical to the one he had just received. He had done so blindfolded, in the back of a van speeding down god-knows-what backroad. That time, it took Jim forty-seven minutes to tear London apart before his sniper.

Sebastian gripped the steering wheel with his right hand, his knuckles pale, and frantically smashed his phone with his left. It was early, too early for any (sane) drivers to be out. Within moments, Sebastian had the exact GPS coordinates of Jim’s phone.

He slammed his foot to the floor, his vision going blurry.

He recognized the numbers.

They were a meter away from the river Crane.

***

Even in the darkness, the tracks were palpable. _Sloppy shitheads_ , Sebastian thought.

Sebastian had parked a few meters away and jumped out of the car, following the drag marks to the edge of the water.

He cracked one of the giant-ass glow sticks Jim had insisted on leaving in the glove compartment ( _fuck, that little shit saw this coming, didn’t he?_ ) and flung it into the river. His eyes clung to its faint green glow as it sank to the bottom. His eyes tore through the water, maddening as they were met with nothing that even resembled a human body.

Hold up - there. Near the bottom.

Sebastian’s heart rate quickened as tore off his jacket, taking a polar-bear dive into the freezing water. The shock that shattered his bones made him dizzy, but he still maintained his vision.

He saw a lily-pale arm, made a blind-grab, thanked whoever was upstairs when he connected with flesh, and swam frantically up.

He tried not to notice how Jim was slack in his grip.

He put his hand on the edge of the riverbed and heaved himself up, up. up, over the edge, tugging Jim along with him. His mind swam with instructions for scenarios similar to this one.

 _Okay, make sure he’s still breathing_. Sebastian lowered an ear to Jim’s mouth, as if the small man was whispering something dirty during a negotiation to tests Seb’s poker face, and was flooded with relief at the sound of small intakes of breath. He felt the man’s wrist, reassuring himself that his pulse was normal.

How long had Jim been in the water? What had happened to Jim _out_ of the water?

Sebastian shoved the questions, and what he feared may be the answers, into the corner of his mind. He had bigger fish to fry.

He started unbuttoning Jim’s shirt, spotting the plastic handcuffs that kept his hands bound behind his back.

Seb vaguely wondered exactly how much of a fight Jim had put up, even after being bound.

Sebastian pulled the shirt off as much as he could, then blatantly removed the man’s shoes, socks, and finally pants. _Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Discard the wet clothing_? Sebastian withheld a blush, though he knew the only man who would see was currently unconscious. The London air was freezing, and Sebastian himself was chilled to the bone.

He dug a switchblade out of his jacket pocket and sliced off the handcuffs, pulling Jim’s shirt off completely. He threw his jacket over Jim and scooped him up, dashing to engulf him in the  warmth of the car. He turned on the engine, and heard a small voice.

“Sebastian, you’re dripping all over the seats.” Sebastian turned to see Jim sitting up, eyes open, wearing the jacket properly (how the hell had he managed that? Seb only had turned away for a few moments.)

“Do you always wear my tees under your dress shirts?” Sebastian asked, nodding towards the holey fabric hanging off Jim’s chest.

“Well, they are my pajamas, it just makes getting changed easier,” Jim muttered. Sebastian let out a deep laugh. He turned back to the windshield, putting the car in drive, when he felt thin, sopping arms wrap around his torso.

“You’ll catch a cold, you won’t do me any good bedridden” Jim muttered into his side. Sebastian turned in his seat, wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist and beneath the jacket,  the only dry article of clothing either of them possessed.

“Next time you attempt a rescue, don’t wear your pajamas when its below freezing.”

“Attempt? I think this was a completion,” Sebastian said, burying his face in Jim’s hair. “And you can let go now, babe, I’ve got to get us home.”

“No. Share body heat. Stay warm,” Jim muttered.

Sebastian didn’t complain. It wasn’t often that Jim was this cuddly, and Sebastian was in no rush to alienate him.

It was days like this, few and far between, that reminded both of their painful mortality. They both realized long ago that neither could live without the other. And in this line of work, you learn to revere every kiss, every shag, every cuddle, because you never know when your partner in crime is going to end up at the bottom of the thames before you have a chance to check your phone.

Even if it's three in the morning and you’re sopping wet.


	12. Making Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys; I suck at touchy feely stuff.  
> Takes place in an AU, obviously.  
> Also, anyone interested in betaing?

-1 new message.-

The number was withheld, but it couldn’t hurt to open.

“Excuse me,” Jim said, glancing at his phone under the table.

“Take your time,” said Sherlock, “you have the rest of your life.” Jim smiled. He gave another glance to the two tiny glass bottles in front of either man, and he suppressed a chuckle. Sherlock thought he would win, that he would outsmart Jim. But Jim had an ace up his sleeve, and nothing short of the world ending could bring a halt to the merry go round he was creating.

Jim flipped open his phone, and the image filled the screen.

A man, 6’2 (no, not a man. A slab of flesh.) His usually tan skin was pale, his mouth slightly open.There were dark smudges around his eyes, which remained shut, and along his cheekbones. There was a hole evident in the center of his forehead, but any blood had been cleaned up.

Jim screeched. The phone splintered into a dozen pieces, crushed in the man’s tiny grip.

His head was swimming. He reached his hand up, deliberately knocking over the tall glass of water accompanying the pill.

“Wrong number?” Jim looked up, startled at the voice. He could see Sherlock grinning, could hear the sneer in his voice even before he lifted his head.

“Irrelevant,” Jim said hazily. He picked up the smooth glass bottle before prying off the lid. “Final answer?” Sherlock nodded.

“Bottoms up,” Jim said. One last time.

Jim knew he wouldn’t win. He couldn’t win. He had lost too much to be considered, by any definition, a champion.

But at least he wouldn’t be the only man to lose.

****

Sebastian jolted awake. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the bursts of light.

Where the hell was he? He had just been walking to the grocer, picking up some chicken for the stir fry he was cooking up later, Jim’s / _favorite_.

The first thing he saw was a pale, nervous face with pursed lips looming over him.

“What the fuck?” He uttered. The girl blushed, jumping away.

“Wait, I know you,” he said, taking in the woman hovering in the corner. “You’re that girl...the one from the coffee shop.” What was her name? Mandy? Millie?

He sat up, and she let out a squeak. She picked up her phone.

Sebastian was on his feet in a flash. He pushed her against the wall, trying not to notice the makeup rubbing in his eyes. The girl shut her lips tightly, not letting a word escape.

He plucked the phone out of her frozen grip before flipping it open. He scrolled through the first message, to a number he recognized. He looked at the picture, and he forgot to breath. The wheels in his head were turning, his thoughts finally connecting like one monstrous spider web.

“What did you do?” he hissed. He didn’t wait for an answer. He was out the door, his footsteps pounding down the hall.

He had the phone pressed to his ear as he paced down the sidewalk. His boss had said he was meeting Sherlock at the pool, only a few blocks away.

“Come on,” he growled, “pick up, Jim.”

_/The number you have reached is no longer available._

Sebastian cursed. He knew, he just / _knew_ , that Jim was gonna do something monumentally absurd. He broke into a sprint, startling a short woman in a trenchcoat.

Knowing Jim, he was already too late to stop him.

But he had to try.

****

Jim rolled the smooth, white pill over in his hands a few times. He knew it’d be painless. Or at least, less painful than the alternative. He gave another glance at the spilled liquid. It would probably be mistaken by the police as just a splash from the pool, where a body hit the water. Besides, a detail as insignificant would be overlooked; they’d have bigger problems to deal with.

Jim imagined it to be poetic. Of course, he was romanticizing the whole ordeal. In the end, it’d be the consulting detective slumped over beside the consulting criminal. Twin preternatural minds coming to a screeching halt, two hearts short-circuiting.

That wasn’t the original plan, but it was close enough.

Besides, Jim’s heart had stopped beating the moment he opened that message on his goddamn phone.

Jim stuck out his tongue, catching a nonexistent snowflake, and dropped the pill into place. He drew his tongue back into his mouth, watching the great detective mime him. He was so close now, just one more swallow to send him over the edge and plunging into the abyss.

The sound of a large object slamming into the door barely caught his attention.

“JIM!” Jim whipped his head around. That did the trick.

Another large thud, and the door swung open, the cheap wood splintering. Sebastian stumbled in, quickly regaining his balance.

Jim’s heart couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to double in rate or stop completely.

It was Sebastian. He looked like death, but he was still breathing.

Sebastian closed the distance quickly.

“SPIT IT OUT!” Sebastian commanded. Jim opened his mouth, and the little white pill fell out. He barely even noticed as Sherlock did the same.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” Sherlock drawled sarcastically. Sebastian sent him a look that could kill a puppy.

“I shot your doctor on my way out,” Sebastian spat. “Go. Now.” He didn’t even need to see Sherlock flee the room to know his words had done the trick.

“It was all a trick, hon,” Sebastian said, once he was sure the room was empty. He put a hand on Jim’s jaw, running his thumb in circles. Jim’s gaze suddenly focused, the whirlwind in his mind coming to a stop.

“Well, fuck,” he said. Sebastian looked over the man’s shoulder.

“You didn’t drink the fucking water?” he mused. Seb knew the rules of the game. Both pills were poisoned, but Jim’s water had the antidote.

“Well, I, uhm,” Jim tried. Sebastian almost laughed. He felt like letting out a pained howl. He came very close to throwing a punch, but he was afraid of what the target would end up being.

For the first time, Jim seemed to be swimming in his own words yet unable to spit them out.

Sebastian didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned forward, going below Jim’s mouth and pressing his lips against a tendon. He felt a fluttering pulse, as if it were only just resuscitating. Carefully, he moved up to press his lips against Jim’s, one hand tangling in his dark hair and the other remaining on his jawline.

It was the warmth radiating from the large hand, the hand that should have been stone-dead cold,  that revived Jim.

All at once, he was kissing Sebastian back ravenously. Anywhere they touched sent flames shooting across the surface of his skin.

He wrapped an arm around Sebastian’s waist, intending to never let go.

Sebastian wasn’t complaining.


	13. Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the umpteenth time, I'm sorry. I am american. I wrote this using american currency, and really don't know how to translate it. i am begging for forgiveness. also, i'm still looking for betas, if any of you extraordinary readers are interested!

“How old are you, two?” demanded Seb, glancing into Jim’s big, doe eyes. He sighed.

“So?” Jim repeated. He shivered and moved closer to the sniper.

“Why do we even / _need_ ice cream? It’s below freezing,” Seb asked. Jim had dragged him, kicking and screaming, into a self-serving parlor, the kind that had twenty-seven different flavors. There was everything from eggnog to euro tart. Seb didn’t have the faintest inkling as to what half of them would have tasted like. He grabbed peanut butter swirled with chocolate, not wanting to poke anything else with a ten foot pole.

Jim, predictably, had taken everything.

“I brought change,” he piped, digging around his pocket. He pulled out his hand laid laid his palm flat up, proudly displaying the four coins to the overly-peppy cashier. “I brought one of each coin.” They were rung up,

“That’ll be $5.44,” she said, maintaining eye contact and smiling. Jim looked back at her cheerily, but Sebastian was rolling his eyes. Sebastian fished around for a five dollar bill, and Jim counted the change.

His eyes went wide, and he dug his nails into Sebastian’s arm.

“I have exact change,” he excitedly muttered. He and Sebastian turned in all their money in exchange for spoons.

“No change,” Seb said, pulling along Jim, who seemed to have forgotten how to use his legs.

When they were seated, opposite each other in a cozy booth , Sebastian stole a spoonful of something green from Jim’s bowl, hoping it to be irish mint. He wrinkled his nose.

“Damnit, it’s pistachio,” Sebastian said.

“Sebby, I’m in shock.”

“From what, boss?”

“I had / _exact_ change. This is a bicentennial event.”

“Alright, hon, it’s pretty fucking spectacular.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

The bell rung, and Sebastian’s eyes wandered over to the door. A young woman, just around his age, walked in. She had incredibly pale hair hair, probably out of a bottle, a stunning face, and a pair of swinging hips.

Sebastian was still calculating the exact route he and Jim would half to take in the morning to get to the house of Sherlock Holmes, and still avoid the CCTV cameras when he felt a nudge on his foot.

Suddenly, his lips were numb, and something plastic was colliding with his front teeth.

Sebastian whipped his head around, spewing more ice cream down the front of his shirt.

“It’s snickerdoodle. I know you love those goddamn cookies,” Jim said. Seb grabbed a napkin, rubbing at his mouth.

“I don’t like competition,” Jim offered as an explanation.

“Could have warned me,” Sebastian scowled.

“You were staring.”

“Really?” Sebastian demanded.

“I could cut your balls off and make a keychain out of them,” Jim reminded him. Sebastian gaped.

“You are freakishly possessive!” He accused. His gaze then softened, and he picked at the melted puddle in Jim’s bowl and glided a spoonful into his own mouth.

“But you have a right to be,” he chided, “I mean, I’m quite the catch, aren’t I?” Jim murmured a word of agreement, rising from his side of the table.

“Scoot, I’m cold,” he commanded, sliding in beside Sebastian. Sighing, Sebastian opened his jacket, and felt tiny arms encircle his waist. He poked his nose into Jim’s dark hair. When he lifted his head back up, Jim was staring at his ice cream, abandoned across the abyss of the table. He lifted his gaze to Sebastian.

“I’d get it myself,” Jim reasoned, ”but I may freeze to death on my way over.” Sebastian let out a tuft of air and stretched his long arm over the table, grabbing the bowl.

“You are / _such_ a two-year old,” he growled. Jim grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“I certainly don’t shag like one,” Jim said, and cherished the bewildered look that crossed Sebastian’s habitually rugged face.


	14. Genderswapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry about my crappy updating skills. here, have some femlock. aaand now i have to add an archive warning. HOLY CRAP, AN ANT JUST CRAWLED ACROSS MY GLASSES. that's some creepy shit. it's okay, i'm still breathing.

Sebina abhorred moving furniture, yet she fondly remembered the day Jen Moriarty had baited her into doing it.

She should have realized her boss’ intentions were misconstrued.

"Don’t worry, tiger," Jen had said when the subject arose, "I'll just hire some guns to do it." Without raising her eyes tom the book she was reading, Sehina possessively ran a hand across Jens small hips, trying not to imagine what the petite brunette to do to a bunch of man lest they so much as leave a mark on her precious antiques,and murmured, "Bullocks, I'll do it myself."

Of course, she had expected to have a little help from Jen. When the day came, Jen hadn't lifted a darkly painted finger.

"You said _you'd_ do it _yourself_ , Sebby, not _we’d_ do it _ourselves_."

"Shut it," Sebrina a grunted, sliding a Rousseau dresser across the bedroom floor, "the only reason you're not away on a business call is so you can ogle at me." Jen grinned, and Sebina couldn't help but be reminded of the way a mouse tries to scurry away once it sees the threat of the snake but rarely has the speed to escape with its life

****

The next time Sebina moved furniture, it was out of her flat. A week after the fall, and she couldn't stand the facing the ghosts of Jen every time she opened the fridge and saw the criminal's homemade peanut butter, or resorted to using Jen’s fruity shower gel because she had absolutely none of her own, or found that the pillow in her bedroom smelled like French lavender and gunpowder.

Part of her, the small part that wanted to believe it wasn't Jen's brains she had gotten all over her favorite pair of boots, was evacuating in case Jen was still out there, and was monitoring the flat with bugs or video cameras or whatever the fuck else psychopaths use to keep tabs on their girlfriends. If Sebina had to live without Jen, then she sure as hell was going to make sure the Jen had to go on without Sebina.

She called on an old army buddy, one that was happily married and hadn’t treated her with the esteem of a blowup sext doll during their tour. She was only moving down the street, to a quaint flat whose owners had supposedly eloped to America and weren't returning for their stuff. The landlady was keeping most of it, but was nice enough to leave her a new dresser. It was made of cheap wood paneling, like something out of a bad movie from the seventies, completely nondescript and falling apart. It had a drawer with a broken track, putty from where previous owners had banged it against a wall, and a handle that was falling off. Sebina didn't think twice before shoving all her shit into the first few drawers, not even bothering to separate her socks from her t-shirts from her underwear. She didn't believe in segregation.

She kept it, mostly because she knew Jen would have made a bonfire out of it the moment it entered under the roof.

Maybe it would give Jen an excuse to haunt her ass.

****

Two weeks later, when Sebina was sprawled out across her queen size bed after a particularly difficult hit (the bastard had shown up two hours late, leaving Sebina to freeze in the abandoned office across the street), she was startled awake by the sound of keys jangling in a lock. She grabbed her hunting rifle, never having left her bedside, and climbed silently to her feet. A shadow entered her room, and a shiver ran down her spine like an electric circuit as she recognized the harshly pretty face. It was the face of an angel, a sprite, a devil. It had flicked all the lights back on in her life when no one else had even been able to find the switch, because she _was_ the switch. It had wormed it’s way into her heart before tearing it apart and stitching it back together, finally shoving it back in her chest upside down and inside out and facing the wrong way.

"Boss?" She asked, not lowering her weapon.

"I'm sorry, tiger."

Sebina should have figured it out then. The voice was too perfect. Every syllable was like a lullaby, a siren song. There were no stark orders, no chastisement for weakness, no taunts meant to anger solely for amusement. Only sorrow, pure and easy.

That was not at all what the sniper wanted.

Sebina finally lowered her rifle, pulling the smaller woman into a hug and dragging her back to bed. She fell asleep with a small head resting her her chest, listening for a steady beat.

****

Morning’s light crept over London like a funeral procession. It filtered in through the cheap paper blinds, rousing a snoring Sebina and illuminating the room.

"Morning, babe," she said, her voice rough from hours of disuse. Met only by silence, she raised her head.

The other side of her bed was cold, empty, unscathed. Sebina looked down, anticipating the sight of dark hairs clinging to her t-shirt, expecting to see drool marks dripping down her chest, hoping to catch a whiff of French lavender

Bereft of all the above, she climbed out of her bed.

Jen may have been gone, but someone still had to follow in her footsteps.

But the sniper had other plans in mind.

She was going to trample down a fresh path to travel in a world full of weeds.


	15. Different Clothing Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it's so short!

Jim was crazy.

He was loopy, inane, and utterly batshit.

But then again, crazy was a hard state to define.

Of course, Sebastian knew exactly what he was getting into the moment he was approached by the dark man who skulked in the shadows. And still he had taken the polar bear plunge.

And that is exactly why when Jim stood before him and told them they’d be crashing a funeral in a few hours, Sebastian didn’t ask for any details except for, “should I wear my Armani or Westwood?”

And also why, when the time came, Sebastian remained silent and merely shrugged his eyebrows when he found the man standing in a hoodie and sweatpants while he himself was dressed in a monkey suit.

Jim answered the tacit question anyways.

“ _I’m_ getting kicked out. _You’re_ getting the info.” So it was a distract and dine scenario.

Sebastian hated playing dress-up. They reminded him too much of the school uniform that had been painted on him for the majority of his childhood, and the schools that refused to expel him because of the donations they were recieving from a  not-so-anonymous bemefactor. But by the end of the night, his suits usually ended up torn to shreds on the floor next to his bed. For multifarous reasons.


	16. Morning Routines

When he opened his eyes, he just assumed he was dreaming. Which was not unreasonable.

Only when he heard that fucking voice, too complex and perfect  for his mind to replicate, did he realize he wasn’t.

But he was not at all surprised.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jim sang. Sebastian caught sight of scrawny limbs sitting cross legged on the edge of the bed.

“You weren’t here when I went to sleep last night,” Seb noted. Jim rolled his eyes, unamused.

“You should really lock your windows. Too easy for someone to break in,” Jim continued, bounding up and across the room. Seb groaned and rolled over, not at caring the slightest bit about the crusty saliva he was smearing all over his pillow.

“ _You’re_ the only one who’s ever broken in,” he noted. “Maybe I _should_ start locking them.” He didn’t have to raise his head to feel the scowl on the younger boy’s face.

Sebastian never understood how the other boy could run on three hours of sleep and still rise like a balloon every morning.

“School?” he groaned.

“Look outside, dullness.” Sebastian chose to ignore Jim’s version of a pet nickname. He lifted his eyes to the window behind him. The air was swimming, like static in an old film. It was too bright outside for six in the morning.

He concluded that the sun must have been reflecting off the surface of the snow.

“Snow day?” he asked. He felt like a small child, sophomorically asking his parents if he can open a window and catch the ice flakes on his tongue.

“Yes, Seb. But I must admit, it takes all the fun out of playing hooky.”

Sebastian had half a mind to just close his eyes and drift off into silent comfort. However, at that moment, a new thought decided to force its way into his cranium, startling him awake the exact same way a soft lullaby wouldn’t.

Sebastian castigated himself for not paying more attention. He bolted upright, encircling his fingers around Jim’s wrist. He tried not to cringe as he found he could easily touch his finger to his littlest finger, vowing to force some food into the kid.

The pale skin was clammy at best.

“How exactly did you get here?” Seb asked, not releasing his death grip.

“How I always get here; I walked.”

“Jim. It’s _snowing_ outside, and you live four streets away.”

“I walked fast. And it was brisk at best.” Sebastian, for the first time that morning, observed Jim. He saw a young boy clad in a gray hoodie and jeans and soaked to the bone looking, wearing an expression that could easily be mistaken for one who has been slightly inconvenienced; like there’s a mysterious surcharge at the ATM, or he’s opened the cupboard to find that he’s run out of coffee grounds.

Sebastian let go of the wrist, circling around and digging some rumpled clothes out of his dresser and throwing them at the boy.

“Change,” he commanded. Jim rolled his eyes before stripping off his sweatshirt and replacing it with the new one. His hands hovered just above his belt for a moment before raising a single finger and moving it in a circle.

“No. You broke into my fucking house during a snowstorm, I am going to make damn well sure you get dressed,” Sebastian barked. Jim glared at him as he shed his pants and put on the new ones.

“Now, we are going to go downstairs and you are going to eat some motherfucking pancakes because if you don’t, I will break your wrist,” Sebastian snapped.

“That’s enough orders for one day,” Jim said coldly. Regardless, he rose and followed Sebastian down the hall.

“Fine. Will you please have something to eat?” Sebastian tried, heating up the griddle and grabbing the ingredients as Jim sat on the kitchen counter. His head just brushed the hanging light fixture, the one that was cracked.

Jim wrinkled his nose, and shook his head.

“At least _consider_ it,” Sebastian said. He had no problem with the cooking  and cleaning and altogether _caretaking_ when it came to his friend, but he was at least going to make sure the little shitface didn’t starve himself to death.

Sebastian let out a heavy breath of air.

“I bought that freaking jam you insist on keeping, the apricot one,” he said, cracking one egg and another before grabbing some milk.

“...And the Sicilian bread?”

“Yes, and the Sicilian bread. Just for you.” There was hesitation. All that could be heard was the sizzling of the butter on the griddle, and a faintly nutty aroma.

“I guess I could have a piece. As long as you put chocolate chips in the pancakes.” Sebastian tried to hide a grin.

“I will put hot sauce in the pancakes if it makes you eat them,” ( _if it makes you happy_ ,) Sebastian insisted.

“No. That’s disgusting. That would make _you_ happy.” Sebastian grinned and grabbed four different kinds of chocolate chips and a bag of M &Ms, dumping them all in the batter until it was unrecognizable. He knew about Jim’s giant ass sweet tooth, and was not afraid to exploit this knowledge.

“Smells delightful,” Jim said a few minutes later.

“Really? These are the most disgusting pancakes I’ve ever made.”

“Nonsense. Remember last week, when you decided to use the smoke alarm as a timer? Those were inedible.”

“Well, I’m sorry that all my cooking experience comes from a one-semester course I took three years ago.”

“And failed,” Jim reminded him.

“Only because _you_ were my partner, and decided to burn your homework when we were making bananas foster.”

“The papers had it coming. They were suggesting I actually intended to _learn_ something.” Sebastian winced as he felt small arms attempt to pin down his own, and a cold body flush against his own. He turned down the stove, and wriggled around in Jim’s grasp.

“Cold?” he asked, rubbing Jim’s arms for friction. He heard a hum of agreement come from somewhere below his chin.

“Next time, _call_ and I’ll pick you up,” Sebastian said. He heard something suspiciously like “too predictable,“ and decided to ignore it.

All his life, Sebastian had been repeatedly bent and broken. By absent parents, by malicious schoolteachers, by chastising classmates. And by Jim.

But sometimes Sebastian wondered. Wondered why he made disgusting pancakes at six o’clock in the morning, why he insisted on making sure the kid got dressed, why he held him when he was shivering due to his own dementia.

At that moment, he realized what it was. Yes, he sure as hell had been bent and broken by Jim. But this time, it had been - he hoped - into a new shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my brother came home for the week, and now we have no hotsauce. I assume the two events are correlated.


	17. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all my wonderful readers and commenters!!

Sebastian was instantly hit with the poignant smell of a freshly opened bottle of wine and fresh lavender, bundles of which he could see sitting on every table.

It wasn’t exactly his kind of restaurant - Seb preferred deep fried easy over fine dining, the kind of food you can drown in ketchup and comes with four kinds of dipping sauces - but he wasn’t about to turn down a dinner invitation from his boss, no matter how much he despised having to wear a tie.

Seb surreptitiously adjusted the dark waistcoat he wore under his jacket, a gift from Jim on his six-month anniversary of employment. Sebastian clearly remembered wondering how a man who spent his spare time planning prison breakouts, gruesome deaths, and all-out explosions could pick such an insipid gift. When he had opened the meticulously wrapped box, all he had seen was a poor attempt at cleaning him up, as if Jim was trying to force him into some specially-shaped hole so that Sebastian would fit perfectly into his life.

That was not what Jim had intended. Jim already knew that there were no circles or squares or any other shapes that Seb would fit perfectly into - he was only fit for a Seb shaped hole. Secretly, Jim liked that about him. He was the only thing in the criminal’s life that created an entirely new shape, one unlike any he had ever seen and too complex for anything else to fill.

Jim had intended the gift to be a promise, a promise to stick with the sniper and take him along to fancy rich people meetings, high-end clubs, and posh restaurants. Of course, when Jim had planned this out, he had assumed there would be company for dinner.

Sebastian spared the pretty young waitress in the little black dress a charming smile completely meant for someone else and glanced over her shoulder.

“Reservation name?” she asked, trying to hold eye contact.

“Brooks,” he said, “I’m meeting someone.” Sebastian smiled again when he caught sight of Jim, sitting quietly at a table and trying to fold his cloth napkin into a paper crane.

“That’s a shame,” she said with a sultry smile, “unless it’s just for business, of course.” She held out a menu, not letting go when Sebastian wrapped his hand around the other end. He didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m Julie, by the way,” she said, still trying to get his attention. Sebastian smiled distractedly, watching Jim abandon the pile of cloth on the table and progress to balancing a spoon on his nose.

“Oh, uhm, I’m Sebastian. Thanks, Julia.” He finally spared her a half-hearted glance, annoyed that she was obviously keeping him from more important matters.

Her face dropped, and he finally led him to Jim’s table. Sebastian didn’t miss the glare she was giving Jim, as if she was willing one of the three forks next to his hand to suddenly develop a mind of it’s own and dig itself into his hand.

Sebastian plopped himself down across the table, leaning across to plant a sweltering kiss squarely on Jim’s mouth.

“Hi, honey pie. Sorry I’m late, I got held up at work,” Sebastian said. He didn’t look up to cherish the abashed expression he knew would look right at home on the woman’s face, nor as he heard the angry click of heels growing dimmer and dimmer.

“It’s alright. I wasn’t waiting very long, and I had some business matters of my own to attend to,” Jim said, lazily leafing through his menu.

Sebastian looked down at his own, and realized he couldn’t pronounce the majority of the dished. He looked up at Jim just as a new waitress, a dark haired woman with bright red lipstick and an aura of quiet authority, approached.

“Nothing for me tonight,” Jim said, folding his menu and handing it to her, “but he’ll have Canard à la Rouennaise.” Sebastian just nodded, knowing he was along primarily to sit there and look pretty.

***

Chatter soon turned to work matters - who was being assassinated this week, a meeting with some high-ranking executive in some big oil company, a jealous spouse who needed his husband’s wretched sister out of the picture.

“Oh, that waitress won’t be coming into work tomorrow,” Jim casually slipped into the conversation. “She just went home to find her dog’s entrails hanging from the ceiling, and will need at least two days to recover from the paranoia accompanying the message.” Sebastian sighed, knowing this was coming.

“I wouldn’t peg you as the jealous type,” he said.

“What _would_ you peg me as, Seb?”

“Not really as anything, I guess. The consulting criminal mastermind who  viciously kills innocent pets of women who try to flirt with his favorite sniper when they go out on fancy dates type?” Jim had a smile on his face that would reduce small children to tears.

“Tell me you don’t love it,” Jim said. Sebastian smiled, rubbing his foot against Jim’s leg underneath the table.

“You know I do, babe. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it this far.”

“You’d probably be at the bottom of the Thames if you hadn’t agreed to this.”

“What was that, babe?”

“Nothing. Eat your duck.”


	18. Combat Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the mini-haitus. i kinda pulled this chapter out of my ass. takes place a year after hanging out with friends.

/ _Should I stay or should I go now?_

_Should I stay or should I go now?_

_If I go there will be trouble_

_An' if I stay it will be double_

_So come on and let me know/_

****

Jim reached for the ringing phone with his right hand, mentally berating himself for leaving his phone out where a certain _someone_ could find it and easily change his ringtone, not removing his left from the .22RL.

“Seb,” he said, not needing to even glance at the screen. Only a few people had his number, and only one had the nerve to call it.

“Where the fuck are you?” spat the voice on the other line.

“Now, no need to swear. I’m sure you’ll find me.”  He heard panting on the other line, and figured Sebastian must have been climbing the countless flights of stairs.

The only sound that Jim could hear was the sound of the gun clocking.

He swung his legs over the side of the window seat, facing the door just as it burst open to reveal a red-faced Sebastian.

Jim let his phone drop from his grip, knowing it was unlikely he’d ever use it again.

“Freeze,” he commanded as Sebastian attempted to dash across the tiny flat. Sebastian halted.

“You little shit,” the blonde boy growled. Jim smiled. He knew Seb only cursed when he was distraught.

Sebastian realized that Jim probably knew his intentions. Truthfully, Sebastian was hysterical at the sight of Jim casually holding a gun to the place where his jaw met his neck. He decided to take a more casual approach, leaning up against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest.

He threw his arms out to his side, shrugging, then let them drop before resting them in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” Jim said, “everything is just so _tedious_. I’m just not interesting anymore.” Sebastian lifted one hand, pointing it accusingly at the boy across the room.

The light from the window illuminated him from behind. Sebastian shuttered, thinking that he was looking from the perfect angle to see Jim as a stark angel.

A car passed by, momentarily blocking the path of light and shattering the illusion. Sebastian no longer saw Jim as omnipotent, as clairvoyant or otherworldly. He saw Jim for what he really was - a boy, on the brink of adulthood, who had been dealt a pile of shit instead of a good hand, and was tired of living with it.

Sebastian realized a few things at that moment.

The first was that Jim had picked out that room’s wallpaper, a pale yellow, and that it would never be purified of the spatters of red Jim was about to create.

The second was that Jim really needed to clean up his shit, it was scattered all over Seb’s apartment.

As for the last thing, Sebastian would never share it with another soul.

Well, maybe just this once.

“Listen here, you little shit,” he said, slowly taking a step forward. Jim gazed at him lazily, not at all threatened, and Sebastian continued.

“Let me just make a few things clear. You are _damn_ intelligent, valuable as _hell_ , and _not the least bit worthless_. You are _super_ fucking loved, extremely goddamn _interesting_ , not to mention a _hot piece of ass_. Have I made myself clear?” Jim remained adamant.

“That’s not enough,” Jim said quietly. He wasn’t afraid, not really.

“Jim,” Sebastian said through gritted teeth, “if you pull that trigger, I swear, I’ll ruin myself.” Jim raise one eyebrow inquisitively. “I’ll start smoking - I can legally buy them, now. I’ll drink myself into a coma. I’ll drop out of school, and take to the streets. I’ll share needles with the homeless, and slowly starve in the cold.” He saw a flicker of something, he wasn’t quite sure what, pass through Jim’s features.

“Jim,” he concluded, “if you go, I will follow you.” Jim looked down, his eyes searching through the clutter of discarded clothes lying across the floor. He never could be bothered to pick up after himself.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, not lifting his gaze.

“Because I motherfucking love you, okay?” Jim heard the sound of hesitant footsteps cross the floor, and felt a warm hand placed over his, moving away the gun.

The memory of cold steel pressed against his jawline was soon demolished in the presence of warm lips.


	19. Formal Wear

“Oh, waiter, do you mind refreshing my drink?” Sebrina plastered a smile on her face, turning towards Jen.  

“Why, of course, Madame,” Sebrina said, offering out her silver serving platter. Jen chose a flute of champagne – classy.

The moment all eyes had returned to the speaker at the front of the room, Sebrina had slipped through the crowd once again; her scowl deepening with every step she took.

Jen was being an arsehole; sometimes, Sebrina thought she did half these things just to piss her off.

 _Don’t worry,_ Jen said. _It’ll be fun,_ Jen said. _You get to play waitress, I get to play princess. And then you can ravish me in the loo, just for fun._

When Sebrina had first caught sight of her, she had almost dropped the plate of dishes she was carrying.

Jen was clad in a flowing black dress with layers of purple and grey fabric underneath; when she walked, it looked as if she were gliding on smoke.

Sebrina suddenly felt a bit ridiculous looking in the vest and tie she had acquiesced to wearing.

But when the two had finally caught a break, with Sebrina breathing heavily as she tried to un-clasp the first of a dozen buttons trailing down Jen’s back, Jen had looked at her with venom in her eyes and said, “one tear, and I’m running you into my next handbag.” Well, that certainly killed the mood.

And it only fueled Sebrina’s hatred for the dress. It was elegant. It was priceless. And it was the only thing separating Sebrina Moran from Jen Moriarty.

Jen had only looked at the animosity on her sniper’s face, and laughed.

“Love bites, tiger, and so do I.” One steamy kiss was all she got that night.

But the next morning, after the games were over, the wretched dress laid in a tattered heap next to a doubly occupied bed; and Sebrina Moran continued to reside in the number of pieces she was currently in.


	20. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry.

“Why?”

“Why what, Sebby?” Sebastian looked as though he were ready to punch Jim right in the face. He was, really. The only thing stopping him was the reminder of what had happened last time he had hit Jim – he still has z-shaped scar running up and down his entire left side to prove it, only covered by his arm or a decent shirt.

“Club. Clothes. Drink. Plan?” The last one was a question.

It was a Friday night, and Jim had come home with ominous trendy paper bags – shopping bags. He had forced Sebastian into a ridiculous outfit, clothes that made Sebastian feel as though he had been vacuum sealed inside them, and told him they were going out.

“Is it a job?” Sebastian had asked, knowing he had a hit early the next morning.

“Maybe,” Jim had said, staring into the bathroom mirror and carefully applying eyeliner. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Sebastian didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t want to use the d-word (date, not dick) quite yet, but he wanted to know whether he should being his butterfly knife and Jericho 941, or just stick to his colt and the pocket knife attached to his keychain. To a professional, the pull-out knife was surprisingly effective. And Sebastian knew how to make a man scream in pain using only a ballpoint pen.

He decided that his pants were too tight to conceal a butterfly knife, so he grabbed the Jericho and called it a night.

The club was dimly lit and packed, not exactly ideal conditions for a sniper. But technically, Sebastian was off duty; he doubted Jim would have him sneak a bullet from _inside_ the club.

Jim hadn’t tried to sneak off or give a blow job to a stranger on the dance floor yet, so Sebastian figured the night would turn out all right.

There was a thumping base and a metallic voice ricocheting off the club walls; Jim had to stand on his tiptoes and shout into Sebastian’s ear to be heard.

“Dance!”

Sebastian didn’t move. In a sea of rocking bodies, his stayed inert; this wasn’t his kind of dancing. Plus, he was aware that the slightest pelvic thrust may very well cause his pants to burst open.

He was about to grab Jim’s hand and lead him over to the bar for a drink when, above the rancor, he caught sight of a couple.

They were, in fact, palpably not a couple.

The man, tall and lean with closed eyes and pursed lips, had wrapped his arms tightly around the girl, pulling her flush against his chest, caging her in. The girl had a scowl on her face, and was beating at his hands. She was petite, with un-manicured nails that were scratching at his wrists and frizzy hair that the man seemed to be inhaling. She was dressed modestly, wearing a knee-length skirt and dark t-shirt with flats and no jewelry. Whatever reason the man had for ignoring her protests, it wasn’t good enough for Sebastian.

He grabbed Jim’s hand, not wanting to lose the small man in the crowd, and made his way through the sea of pulsing bodies.

He easily pulled the man’s arms from around the girl and, ignoring her questioning yet grateful look, pushed her away and wrapped them around himself.

Jim and the girl stood and watched as Sebastian and the creeper danced. It took two full minutes for him to realize that the body he was grinding on was not, in fact soft and pliable, but rather carved completely of muscle.

For a moment, the man flailed his arms around and stumbled backwards, giving Sebastian a disgusted look. Sebastian only smiled and blew him a kiss.

The girl was in stitches, doubled over laughing, and shook Sebastian’s hand in thanks before running off to find the friends that had so cruelly deserted her.

Jim, however, was pouting.

“You’ll dance with that creep, but not with me?” He shouted, still struggling to be heard over the sounds of the club.

“Jim, don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Sebastian was grinning. Jim just crossed his arms and turned away.

“Jim, I don’t do this shit,” Sebastian tried. He had started to walk away.

“Jim, I thought this was a job!” While Jim was able to slip through the crowd with ease, Sebastian had to force people to part when passing.

“Jim, this isn’t even dancing, it’s sex with clothes on!” They had stumbled past the doors, out into the cold are, and he had shouted that last part a little too loudly, earning himself some dirty glares.

He walked beside Jim, resting an arm around his shoulder. He was filled with a burning desire to be wearing a reasonable amount of fabric, instead of the flimsy outfit Jim had forced upon him.

“You were fantastic,” Jim said, shaking Sebastian from his thoughts. His voice was still slightly hoarse from the club, which Sebastian found strangely endearing. It made Jim seem more human. “You were like an avenger. A gay avenger.” Jim’s eyes lit up. “A Gay-venger!” It took Sebastian a moment to realize to what Jim was referring. When he did, he had to fight to keep a smile from blooming across his face.

“I only did what needed to be done,” he said. He tried to hide it, but he was secretly ecstatic by his boss’s enthusiasm.

“No, you took what was needed to be done and threw it out the window.”

“Alright, cool it with the compliments. You didn’t happen to see anyone drop something in your drink, did you?” That earned him a shove.

Jim grinned. “And you say you don’t like dancing.”


	21. Cooking I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've also got a second one hoarded away. i'm very indecisive.

There was a knock on the door.

“Sebastian?” a voice called, timid and barely audible.

Sebastian put the book that he had been reading upside down on the bedside table, turned off the lamp, and grunted as he got up from the arm chair to open the door.

He recognized Jim’s tone of voice; he wouldn’t be returning for some time.

He opened the door.

“Yeah, babe?” Jim was wearing a grey t-shirt and flannel pants, looking as though he had just rolled out of bed. Sebastian wanted to run his hands through his hands through Jim’s hair, sticking up in all directions, until it was flat again, leaving him looking like a drenched puppy. He refrained.

“I accidentally deep fried some perogies. Want some?” Jim was smiling.

“You….what?”

“I cooked them with too much oil. Come join me.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked down the hallway.

Like so many other things in his crazy, messed up life, Sebastian had no choice but to follow.

+++

The kitchen, which Sebastian cleaned obsessively every Friday night, was still spotless – the only new items were the empty pan, two dishes, and a can of orange crush sitting on the chrome table.

Sebastian grabbed the can, opening and throwing his head back to take swig before passing it to Jim. Jim had six of the confections, still sizzling, piled high on his plate, one on top of the other, like a miniature potato replica of the leaning tower of Pisa.

Sebastian picked the top three up with his left hand, ignoring the sting of hot oil, and carefully placed them on his own dish.

“So,” he asked, opening the fridge and handing Jim the sour cream, “how exactly did you cook them?

Jim prodded at his food, skewering a perogi and watching the stem rise, like gun smoke, before giving his answer.

“I cooked them. Too much oil. But it was better than last time, I only got a first degree burn.”

Sebastian grabbed Jim’s wrist, examining the tell-tale red bubble on the second knuckle of his ring finger. Reaching into the freezer, he retrieved an ice pack and pressed it to the swell.

“Where’s the oil?” he asked; the pan was spotless.

“Hmm? Oh, I poured it on the plants. They were evil.” Jim spoke of his killing-spree the way one may speak of brands of toothpaste, or his daughter’s teddy bear.

Sebastian shrugged and drizzled hot sauce around the edge of his plate, covering everything except for his food.

They sat in silence for a while. Well, Sebastian sat in silence, and Jim sang a Clash song to his food.

Sebastian turned to put his now-empty dish in the sink, when he was stopped by the loudest belch he had ever heard.

He turned around to find Jim covering his mouth, smiling sweetly.

“Nice, one, _Rich,_ I didn’t know you had it in ya,” Sebastian said, smiling. Jim’s smile quickly dropped, and he sent Sebastian a glare that told him Jim had returned.

“Call me that one more time, and I will harvest the hot oil from the plants and pour it down your pants.”

Sebastian grinned. “Is that a promise?”


	22. Cooking II

Jim was never much of a cook. But Sebastian, being the fantastic boyfriend that he was, once tried to teach him.

Once.

The one time that Sebastian picked Jim up off the couch and dragged him into the kitchen for some “not-killing-people lessons,” as Sebastian liked to call them, Jim had managed to misread the recipe. Instead of adding half a teaspoon of baking soda to the biscuit dough he was making, Jim added half a cup. Sebastian failed to notice, and continued to threw in a pinch of salt, a handful of flour (he never measured anything,) and put them in the oven.

Ten minutes later, the door to the stainless steel oven had blown off.

Jim had gotten a kick out of it, calling them “biscuits of glory.” But Sebastian had freaked.

“We hadn't even taken the sticker off that oven!” he yelled, storming out of the apartment. He returned twenty minutes later with a roll of store-bought dough. Jim gravely apologized after that, knowing of Sebastian’s abhorrence of pre-packaged food.

Jim chuckled when he noticed Sebastian pouring a bright red liquid over his piping-hot ones.

“Would you like some more hot sauce, tiger?” he asked. The look Sebastian sent him could have melted glaciers.

The biscuits were admittedly too sweet, but they tasted like clouds.

And they didn't blow off the oven door.


	23. Texting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do what i want

(Fri 11:37pm)

Jim

(Fri 11:39pm)

JiMM

(Fri 11:40pm)

JimMMiny CRICKet

 

_(Fri 11:41pm)_

_Yes, Sebastian?_

 

(Fri 11:42pm)

Guess whAT

 

_(Fri 11:44pm)_

_You’re at a party. And you’re inebriated._

(Fri 11:47pm)

No, I’m just pretending to be inebriated to piss you off. Is it working?

(Fri 11:52pm)

You should come over

 

_(Fri 11:53pm)_

_No, thank you. Remember what happened at the last party I attended?_

 

(Fri 11:55m)

You tried to light the dog on fire?

 

_(Fri 11:55pm)_

_I SUCEEDED in lighting the dog on fire._

 

(Fri 11:57pm)

But there are no dogs at this party, just really cute girls

 

_(Fri 11:58pm)_

_Aren’t you afraid I’d light one on fire?_

 

(Sat 12:00am)

No, I trust you

 

_(Sat 12:01am)_

_That is a mistake on your part, Moran_

 

(Sat 12:06am)

Oh, breaking out the last names. You mean business.

 

_(Sat 12:09am)_

_Just go back to your beer pong._

 

(Sat 12:11am)

Too late. I left a few minutes ago.

 

_(Sat 12:17am)_

_That’s great; save yourself a few brain cells._

 

(Sat 12:22am)

You are a horrible person.

 

_(Sat 12:26am)_

_Finally, you’ve realized. Now will you just leave me alone?_

 

(Sat 12:29am)

Not a chance. I’m a horrible person, too. And I’ve just made a truly horrible decision.

 

_(Sat 12:33am)_

_Really? Was leaving that drunken orgy really that fallacious of a decision?_

 

(Sat 12:34am)

That’s not what I’m talking about.

(Sat 12:35am)

Look outside.

 

_(Sat 12:40am)_

_Dear lord, there’s a murderer in my backyard._

 

(Sat 12:41am)

…arsehole. Now let me in, it’s pouring.

 

_(Sat 12:41am)_

_No._

 

(Sat 12:42am)

WHAT THE FUCK

 

_(Sat 12:43am)_

_You don’t have a change of clothes, and you’re not allowed to walk around my house and drip water everywhere._

 

(Sat 12:44am)

Oh really? What if you bring me a towel, and I leave my clothes outside?

 

_(Sat 12:48am)_

_…all of them?_

 

(Sat 12:49am)

Yes.

 

_(Sat 12:49am)_

_I can manage that._

 

(Sat 12:50am)

Thank GOD. Now LET ME IN

 

_(Sat 12:51am)_

_Not with that attitude._

(Sat 12:52am)

Fine. Please?

 

_(Sat 12:52am)_

_Hmm…getting closer_

 

(Sat 12:53am)

Come on, I’ve already begun to disrobe.

 

_(Sat 12:55am)_

_All the more reason to keep you waiting._

 

(Sat 12:56am)

Oh, really?

-One Photo Attachment-

_(Sat 12:56am)_

_On my way_


	24. Fighting Side by Side

He was sure he heard Jim’s cackle as the first sharp glint of pain ricocheted through him like a bullet.

He groaned, a low moan with countless syllable, as he slammed his fist up, catching one of the thugs in the chest.

He didn’t know what the man had – whether it be a gun or knife of bludgeon (his vision was going hazy, with dark crimson leaking into his eyes like the first stream of water from the shower nozzle) – but it hurt like a motherfucker.

Worse so, it reminded him that he was utterly alone.

He blinked, and he could feel the hot sand under his chest, pressing up against the coarse fabric of his dusty uniform. He was tempted to lay motionless, stolidly concealing himself from the target. It would be oh so easy, imprinted into his brain from years of training.

But a tinny voice in his head – one with a slight Irish lilt – screeched at him to stop being so _fucking lazy,_ he was _failing,_ he needed to _move and fucking fight back, show ‘em who’s boss and snag a souvenir or two._

_No, Jim, I won't. Not this time._

After fighting to so freaking long (eons of pain, not that he minded), running and hiding and flat-out fighting, the darkness was alluring. There was a certain quality that was calling his name in a honey-sweet voice, and he knew he was dying.

He had been for a very long time.

Time slowed; the flow of life that had been rushing out of him like the Nile River had slowed to a trickle, like someone hadn’t turned the faucet all the way off, h _e’d fucking told Jim to be more careful, he was out of the flat for four days and the utilities bill would skyrocket,_ draining out of him drip by drip. It was exhausting, and the previously staggering pain had transcended into a dull throb, rocking him to sleep.

All he had to do was listen to the soft lullaby, allow himself to slip up for the first time, for the final time, at least he’d gone down fighting and protected what ( _WHO, screamed a voice deep inside his brain)_ he loved.

He felt a sharp smack across the face, sobering him like a bucket of cold water.

_Fight back, you MORON. You CANNOT FAIL ME._

One of his eyes cracked open, and through rivers of red and black he saw a sliver of light, and Jim was standing there with his arms crossed, wearing one of his holey band t-shirts and boxers and looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Sebastian knew he was the only human in existence who ever got to see Jim like that, all messy and rugged and not at all the pristine persona he played for clients. Sebastian grinned as he remembered the feeling of running his hands through dark hair, trying to matt it down for the man and tracing kisses along his pale skin.

He remembered the sound of Jim’s voice hoarse from shouting, whether it was at Sebastian or from sex or just yelling at thin air when he was pissed.

And he remembered the night he’d showed up at the flat to find a bunch of wildflowers shoved in a glass vase, because apparently it was their anniversary even though Sebastian had no idea when they’d gone from employing to fucking to dating to remembering anniversaries. And Jim had said that it had been exactly a year since they first met, face to face at a crummy bar after Jim had spent a month and a half tracing his every step and following his every move. That was their anniversary because the moment Jim had seen the hungry look in his eyes and felt his calloused hand, he knew Sebastian would be his.

Sebastian leapt to his feel, catching the man in his solar plexus and feeling a rib crack in half under his knuckles. He wanted to slice open the man’s back and rip out his spine for luring him away from Jim.

Sebastian fought, fighting for Jim.

And because he had the most powerful motivator in the entire fucking universe, Sebastian won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this during study hall. i feel so dirty.


	25. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard hates Halloween parties. But meeting Severin makes this one okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a late Halloween fic. I'm so sorry. This may be the nerdiest thing I've ever written. In case you don't know, Supernatural is an American television show where some watchers ship Dean Winchester and Castiel. There is so much fanfiction about it. slightly edited.

 Richard’s heart rate quickened, and he dug his nails into the soft flesh of his brother’s fingers. In the dim lighting, he felt Jim pry them off, one by one. Jim turned away from the couple he was conversing, two guests dressed as a pair of zombies with matching bloody smiles that never faltered.

“Richie, you need to unwind. Go get yourself a drink,” he said, plastering concern all over his painted face. Richard didn’t understand why Jim needed to apply a kilo of makeup, making him more of a fabulous, gaunt skeleton than the Mad Hatter. But it delighted Jim, infecting him with a grin that Richard had missed dearly the past few weeks.

Richard nodded, drawing his trench coat closer to himself like a safety blanket and squeezing through the floor. He apologized for every toe he stepped on, every conversation he separated, and every shoulder he brushed, no matter how blameless he was for each.

He gazed around, locating the punchbowl and pacing towards it. He despised parties; the crowds of people he was expected to converse with but never did drained him of every last drop of energy. He’d much rather have stayed home, handing out candy and gushing over the costumes of every child that rang his doorbell.

Instead, he was stuck in somebody’s kitchen, squirming with discomfort. He poured himself a large glass of the aromatic punch, the color of thinned blood with gelatinous eyeballs floating to the top. He was careful not to spill a drop on his white shirt; he’d borrowed a suit from his brother and loosened the tie, adding a trench coat overtop to masquerade as his favorite character from an American television show called _Supernatural_ , an angel named Castiel. He adored the man’s solemn attitude and benevolent heart.

He took a long swig of the punch, its acidic taste dripping down his throat like cherry cough syrup, before whirling around.

_WHAM!_

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s okay. Really. But it looks as though you’ve had a little too much to drink, mate.”

Richard placed his still-full cup on the counter, his hands whizzing crazily through the air. He himself was impeccably clean, but he couldn’t say the same for the man with whom he’d collided. This time, it was actually his fault.

He raised his eyes from the dark stain marring the man’s flannel shirt, his face coloring at the sight of impossibly green eyes and a forgiving smile.

“I’ve barely had a sip,” Richard blurted, “I promise. I’m just unbearably blundering.” He bit his lip, grabbing a dishrag off the counter. He was centimeters away from blotting at the stain himself, before realizing that it was etched across the man’s chest and handing it to him instead.

“No, no,” the man soothed. “I was just standing a little too close, that’s all. It’s okay, really.” He balled up the textile, dabbing at his shirt before placing it back on the granite countertop. “I’m afraid I’ll need to wash this.” His eyes flickered around the room, looking for a path out of the crowded room.

“I’ll help,” Richard said, guilt swirling around in his stomach. “I mean, if you’d like.”

 “Yeah, of course. I’m Severin, by the way. My brother’s the host.”

“My name’s Richard. My brother dragged me here.” Severin grinned, and Richard was sure his heart stopped.

“I know the feeling. I hope you don’t mind getting dragged around one last time.” Severin grabbed the smaller man’s hand, pulling him through the rancorous crowd. Richard stuck close to his back, trying not to gag at the scent of alcohol that radiated from every last guest in the room or faint from dizziness. They climbed a flight of swirling stairs, and he was lead straight towards the third door to the right. He wondered briefly how this brilliant man knew exactly where to go, and settled on the assumption that he was obviously omniscient.

He was pulled inside the small room with golden walls, the door shutting behind him with a thud.

Incredibly uncomfortable, he perched on the side of the claw foot tub, trying not to stare as Severin’s fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt.

_I shouldn’t have done this. Jim’ll worry. No, he’ll probably be glad I’m out of his sight._

He stole a glance into the mirror, startled at the sight of his cherry-stained lips. No wonder the man assumed he was drunk.

“What can I do to help?” Richard asked, realizing that staring lustfully at Severin was incredibly creepy

Severin shrugged off his shirt, folding it into itself. “You could just enjoy the view.” He raised his head, winking at Richard’s pinkening reflection.

For the first time that night, a smile crossed Richard’s lips.

He found himself tranquilized in the isolation, where there was only one other heartbeat in the room. Without the sea of people, the tension in his shoulders loosened.

“Pardon my asking, but are you supposed to be dressed up?” he asked, his eyes skimming across a tan back. He could count every last vertebrae running down Severin’s spine, dancing under his thin layer of flesh.

“Yeah, actually. Some bloke from an American telly program who kills demons and stuff. Seb, my brother, had such a laugh about it.” He placed the shirt over the drain and turned on the faucet, blasting it with warm water.

Richard’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

“Dean?” he asked, laughing. Severin’s eyes rose again. They widened, and he whipped his head around.

“You’re Castiel?!” Richard nodded furiously. Severin broke into a laughter that shook the walls, bubbling from the pit of his stomach and thundering around the room.

The two broke into a conversation where every sentence started with, “did you see the episode where – “ and “it KILLED ME” and “sure, I didn’t need my heart, anyways.”

The scene looked a little like this; Severin resting against the sink (shirtless, of course), his knuckles white from gripping the countertop, Richard practically jumping off the side of the tub, the two of them leaning towards each other, chatting at a million miles per hour with buzzing eyes, when the door burst open.

“Severin, someone’s having a little too much fun in your bedroom – “

Richard jumped backwards, loosing his balance, toppling backwards into the bathtub.

He sat up with a grimace. In the doorway stood two figures, a carbon copy of both him and Severin, holding hands.

He must’ve hit his head _hard._

Jim burst into laughter.

“Er, never mind, I’ll take care of it,” said Severin’s doppelganger, pulling Jim out of the room and shutting it with a slam.

It took Richard a moment to process what exactly had just happened.

“Shit, you okay?” Severin asked, dropping to the floor and kneeling beside him.

“It depends – do you have a twin?”

“Yeah, sorry. Forgot to mention. But it seems like you do, too.”

The pain was nothing more than a dull throb, but Richard certainly didn’t complain when a large hand found its way to the back of his cranium.

“But he said your room – you _live_ here?”

“Yeah…forgot to mention.” The hand was withdrawn, and Richard felt a stab at its absence. A beat passed before his brain kicked in.

“You could’ve just changed shirts,” he deadpanned.

“Yup.”

From where he was sitting, every last freckle splattered across Severin’s dark face was on display. He wondered if he still tasted of cherry cough syrup, and decided to find out.

He leaned forwards, clutching at Severin’s shoulders, and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips.

There was a scratch of stubble against his own smooth face, and his eyes fluttered closed. A warm mass of muscle move under his grip as Severin raised his arms, encircling Richard’s waist and pulling him closer.

“I’m glad you ruined my shirt,” Severin said, biting Richard lightly on the nose.

“I hate parties, but this one’s all right.”

“Me, too. Want to go hide in my bedroom and watch _Supernatural_?”

At that moment, Richard knew he was in love.


	26. Getting Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience. i'm so sorry i took so long to update. i'm straying from the list, and i will most likely just make the next few chapters different one-shots from AUs i want to try out. let me know if you have any suggestions!! as always, my tumblr is brokentoysniper.tumblr.com

They decided to tie the knot.

There was no epiphany, or surge of spontaneous lust, no lives threatened.

Being dead for two years will do that to you.

The decided one afternoon, when Jim got himself stabbed ( _“But he was lowering the IQ of the whole street, how could I not say something?_ ) and Sebastian had made the last stitch, pulling the thread tight, biting it with his teeth so close to puffy red flesh just to piss off his boss because _“Goddamnit, Jim, I’m a sniper, not a doctor_.”

Neither on remembers who suggested it, only that it came out after crazy thank-god-you’re-alive-you-crazy-lunatic sex, when skin had brushed skin and they were lying in a pool of dried sweat and sticky sheets.

Everything had fallen into place, like strands of a spider web spun together. Aliases had been produced in two days, a judge bribed in three.

Sebastian still remembers how that was the only time he’d ever bought a suit without the supervision of his boss. He’d had to practically push him out the door because _“haven’t you ever heard of bloody traditions?”_ and Jim had just looked at him with eyes the size of saucers, threatening to overflow and Sebastian had been forced to kiss it better. One thing led to another an, well, they’re both still on the blacklist for that chain of tailors.

Morning came, and Sebastian woke to a cold bed and empty flat, which didn’t startled him because he’d grown accustomed to Jim running off and not telling him as long as he didn’t get his head blown off.

The courthouse was lavish, with a posh waiting room and a lavatory that supplied complimentary pants. It all screamed Jim Moriarty.

_Or Moriarty-Moran_ , Sebastian mused. But he knew Jim wouldn’t want to weaken his own name with the addition of another, soiling the spotlight. And he’d never allow for Sebastian to shed his name, no, he’d been marksman-Moran, Colonel Moran, Moran, sir.

As time dripped by, he felt the dog tags in his pocket glowing with heat, bending into a misshapen mess under pressure. He’d decided to present Jim with the foolishly sentimental token, the tags were easier to hide under a dress shirt than a gold band.

The sky darkened, the cloudy blue staining into an inky grey.

He passed the time by reading a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ with a gold binding and velvet inlay he’d nicked off the shelf, balancing on top of the leather sofa to reach the bookcase.

The lights turned out, one by one, and he was all but ejected from the room by the lady in the smart red dress and skin as dark as chocolate sitting behind the desk.

He blocked out the pity lurking behind her chemically whitened smile.

Sebastian entered the flat with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, finding Jim spread across the couch in an Aerosmith t-shirt that had mysteriously vanished from Sebastian’s closet a week before and bright green pants, with a laptop balanced across his knees.

Sebastian could see the reflection of bloodshot eyes in the glow of the screen.

He changed into soft, faded clothes, slamming the door behind him as he went to beat the pulp out of a punching bag until his hands were swollen like mitts and he felt bone grind against bone whenever he moved his fingers.

He lifted much more than he should have without a spotter, his reps skyrocketing and he could feel all his anger building and rising and flowing out of his body in the form of perspiration.

He slept for fourteen hours straight, laying down and waking up in an empty bed.

He found Jim fluttering around the kitchen, typing away at his phone and burning an oven pastry.

“You have a hit in an hour on Conduit Street, target a corrupt politician who likes sticking his cock where it doesn’t belong. I’ll forward you a picture.” He winked. Sebastian grunted in response, pouring himself a steaming mug of tea and wrapping his hands around Jim’s waist to steal a morning kiss.

“Alright. Shall I wait until the mistress is out of the room, or shall I do it while she’s lying in his arms?”

He adored watching the companions start wiggling and wailing after he squeezed the trigger. It reminded him of the follies of partnership.

But a deep niche of Sebastian had withered away, mourning the death of his six-day engagement.

People like him and Jim were never meant to fall in love, not with each other, not with anyone. And they sure as hell weren’t supposed to get married. Because people never survived very long in their profession, and emotional attachments were heedless.

Falling in love was like handing someone a razor blade and a map to your heart, marking in red ink where to cut deepest, with arrows pointing towards the most painful parts.

It was best for them to keep their hearts covered, locked away in the darkest dungeon and armored by the soul.

But sometimes, Sebastian suspected that Jim had kept his heart hidden for so long, that he’d forgotten where he put it.

It was to be expected, though, wasn’t it?

He’d fallen in love with the devil.


	27. Drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a series of one-word prompts I received on my tumble, brokentoysniper.tumblr.com, based on this post. http://shipalloftheshipsforever.tumblr.com/post/63839130047/i-made-one-word-mostly-mormor-prompts-but-they.  
> I apologize for being a lazy asshole.

  1. **1. Hair**



Jim loved hair. He loved shaggy hair, just framing electric blue eyes. He loved dark hair, gelled back intimidatingly. He loved running his hands through it, telling Sebastian “you need to get it cut, you look like a fecking hobo.” It gave him something to grab onto when he was angry, something to cling to when he was frustrated, and something to yank when he was horny. Jim Moriarty was never soft with anything, especially something as alluring as hair.

**4\. Writing**

The words spilled onto the page like blood from a fresh wound. Sebastian poured himself another glass of scotch – the amber liquid was the only thing that helped him remember exactly what he needed to put into words. By the end of the night, his pen would be chewed to oblivion and Jim would be tugging at his arms, threatening to rip up every last shred of paper if he didn’t come to bed  _right this fucking INSTANT_.

He never once asked Sebastian what he wrote about.

**5\. Memories**

_You’re just a basket case_

_And you got no name_

_Could you live with me?_

_Go on and say_

_And even though it don’t show_

_Those scars are so old_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Can’t put your arms around a memory_

_Don’t try_

_Don’t try_

Sebastian poured himself another glass of scotch, turning up the music. It had taken him ten whole minutes to realize he wouldn’t get slapped across the face for playing it too loud.

**6\. Nightmares**

_Glowing eyes and grass the color of sand._

_The sound of a gunshot, shattering the delicate air as if it were glass._

_A pair of eyes, large and dark, like two funholes staring not at him, past him. Into him. He felt their gaze penetrating every layer of his skin, peeling them back and examining what lay beneath._

Sebastian woke with a start, in a whirlwind of sweaty blankets. Instantly alert, he held his breath, listening for anything amiss. It took him half a second to recognize the sound of choked sobs, coming from the small form next to him.

“Richard?” he asked, curling around the other man like a comma and nuzzling his neck, trying to halt the tremors that shook his body like shockwaves. “It’s alright, baby, I miss him, too.”

**7\. Attachment to childhood items**

“Beautiful,” Jim breathed, his eyes devouring the curve of the steel blade. His eyes flickered up to Sebastian’s, catching the look of pride gracing his harsh features. “Who’s throat did you slit with it?”

“My uncle’s,” Sebastian said, his thumb circling the engraved cherry wood. He could perfectly picture the words carved into the underside, in looping script that screamed elegance. They read:  _For the end._

**11\. Sweets**

Severin’s hand fell, swatting the chocolate out of Richard’s small hand. “Careful, bunny,” he said, taking hold of his palm and rubbing smoothing circles. “Those are special chocolates. Just for Jim.” He didn’t mention that they were laced with a poison that would decay his intestines, leaving his insides a puddle and cause his blood to boil.

He looked down at the man’s quavering lip, and gave him a chaste kiss. “We have ice cream in the fridge, if you’d like.” Richard brightened at the thought.

“Cherry?” 

**14\. Doodling**

Sebastian grinned before folding the yellow sticky note and sliding it into his pocket, not quite finding himself able to throw it away. He grabbed a pen, scribbling something in return before folding it into an origami crane and leaving it on the kitchen counter.

Jim had left him with an anatomically correct heart, inked over in gel pen with no caption or signature or anything, marring the page simply by existing. But Sebastian knew exactly what it meant.

Of course, he left a crudely drawn dick pointing towards a stick figure with curly hair and a stupid scarf in return.

**25\. Flustered and 26. Taken**

James was the most insatiable person Sebastian had ever met; all the man ever did was take, take, take. Whish is why it’s a big fucking surprise when Jim gets taken, right out from under Sebastian’s nose. 

“Don’t worry, honey,” he said, “I’ll be just peachy,” he said. “You won’t even notice I’m gone, and they won’t lay a finger on me, not really.” But Sebastian did fucking notice the absence of expensive cologne clouding up the flat, the sharp sting of a knife pressed against his flesh when Jim was feeling particularly sadistic and Sebastian didn’t want him hurting himself, and the incessant rambling about galaxies and blood and the importance, or rather unimportance, of human life that accompanied Jim wherever he went. And at the moment, “wherever Jim went” did not include Sebastian.

Sebastian felt the red-hot flame of agitation growing every passing day, chagrining and flustering his whole being in a way that not even a good fucking could subdue. And Sebastian had tried it, oh, lord knows he did. First, he used co-workers, women he had seen looking up at him from under their lashes and putting on their sly smiles; boys he had sweet-talked with sure touches and clever words; anyone he could pick up at a bar in ten minutes or less – but nothing compared to Jim, nothing cast a cloak over the vexation lurking just beneath the surface. 

But Sebastian, like the good little soldier that he was, waited. And he waited. And, after days had turned into weeks, and weeks into months, he received a visit from an old friend. He stood like a statue under Jim’s scrutinizing glare, his skin crawling and preparing for the autopsy he knew was coming at the return of his boss.

“Sebby, you know how I hate it when you fall apart. Now promise me it’ll never happen again.”

**46\. Reunited**

When John got back Sherlock, who was never really his to begin with, he punched him in the fucking face and then kissed it better. 

When Jim made his horrific debut, the receiving reaction was a bit worse. He got stabbed in the leg - but Sebastian made sure to miss his femoral artery and his iliotbial band (after all, he didn’t  _really_  want to permanently maim the man, just make his insides boil.) Then, he burned all the print-outs, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and transcripts tacked just above the mantle that he’d been poring over for the two months since the psychopath’s suicide ( _suicide attempt, he reminded himself,)_ knowing he didn’t need them anymore, and hoping he wouldn’t need them ever again. 


	28. Marionette (A Letter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A page torn out of a notebook belonging to one Sebastian Moran, addressed to JM.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a ton of fics about Sebastian post-Reichenbach. I wanted to do things a little differently. (TW for self-harm, suicide)

I was in…I don’t know.

Let’s just leave it at that.

We never talked about it. It was better that way, although I still think you should’ve slit my throat the moment you realized I cared.

When I got to the rooftop, it ( _I_ ) was too late.

I was jealous. I was jealous because that bastard in the long coat got to watch you right until the very end, when the life drained out of you, when you bit the dust, when the last string inside of you finally snapped. But you didn’t die; you just…stopped. It’s the only way I can think to describe it.

You, you utter bastard, bastard tricked me. You told me to keep my eyes trained on Watson, that you’d give me the signal. Well, the signal came in the stinging sound of a single gunshot, and I started packing my rifle.

I don’t even know what tipped me off, but suddenly I was climbing flight after flight of stairs creaking beneath my feet, and the door to the rooftop was bursting open in front of me. I remember the glare of the sun, the chill of London air that cooled me right to the bones and knocked the breath out of me. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. It didn’t have anything to do with the crumpled body left stranded on the rooftop.

But you weren’t dead. No, ‘dead’ would imply that you were, at a time, alive. And I’m not even sure anymore.

You were folded in an odd angle, looking like a marionette with no master. I saw you break in half. I looked into your chest cavity, and there was an old clock where your heart should have been. I looked into your abdomen, and I saw that it was just meters of strings, holding you together. You were filled with dozens of strands of pale twine, attached to joints and muscles and layers of skin, holding it ( _you)_ all together.

And in the end, every last one of them had snapped.

That’s all it came down to. I knew you were unhinged, but I never imagined the extent of your…condition.

I could see that it had taken time – some of the strings were newer than others. They were all different sizes and thicknesses, some stained a deep yellow while others were as white as your perfectly bleached teeth.

So you see, I could have prevented it.

_(I burned your body. I didn’t know what else to do with it. I lit the first cigarette I’ve had since you employed me and felt the heat of the flames tickle my face. It was quite beautiful, actually. You would’ve hated it.)_

Now, I look down in the crowded streets, wondering. I’ve always been trained to pick out the individual, find what makes them stick out and use it as a marker, but now all I do is count the strings.

How many are left in that tall woman with the floral hat?

Is the man feeding the pigeons stale crumbs aware of the deathtrap inside of him?

I’ve seen people fall apart. I don’t have to look far; hell, a glance in the mirror would suffice. I know it’s not because of gunshot wounds or cuts too deep or enough pills to shut down the liver of a Sasquatch. It’s because all the strings inside of them snapped.

If I could open myself up, how many strings would be left?

Sometimes, I wonder. Did you ever see them? You could’ve sliced me open and played me like a fiddle. Perhaps you did, and I was just too thick to notice.

I can feel them snapping. I lost two of them last week; one when they ran the news coverage, and the other when I accidentally used your ridiculously expensive shampoo instead of my own.

I don’t know how many I have left, or if I even had more than a handful to begin with.

But I know that I have to keep them guarded and taut. I’ve adopted a ‘use it or lose it’ policy.

I sure as hell don’t want to become just another marionette without its master.

I hate to break it to you, Jim, but you aren’t going to break me.

Sure, I’ve snapped a few strings.

But you haven’t shattered me just yet.

_-SM_


	29. Skeletons in the Closet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second person just feels so natural. Maybe I've been reading too much Homestuck. Age gap, where Jim's sixteen and Seb's in his thirties. I hope I got this right, I know literally nothing about the British schooling system.  
> So I started reading a comic book, and in one panel there was this random ass skeleton hanging inconspicuously in the corner and there was something about it that bothered me and thus this fic was born.

You knock on the door.

“Moriarty, come in,” answers a voice, gruff and deep. You throw open the door, kicking it shut behind you and saunter in as if you own the place. But you know that you are here out of the generosity of someone else, someone whose name you’ll never know. You aren’t bothered, because soon enough you’re going to own all of London and at that point people will owe you debts.

You glance around, at the high windows casting shadows across the textbook illustrations hanging on the wall and at the man hunched over his desk with a fountain pen in hand. There is something about the room that makes your blood run cold that has nothing to do with your professor but you can’t place it.

You can make out a very taught line of muscle, leading under the collar of his shirt and you wonder what your professor looks like when he’s away from it all, lounging around in his rented flat with an attractive wife hanging off his arm and you have to remind yourself that you are here for a reason.

Besides, he’s not even wearing a wedding ring.

You have snooped into the personal lives of every single one of your professors, learning who’s sleeping with who and who has six kids and a lizard and who is most likely to be dancing on table tops on a Friday night. You have learned the secrets they keep hidden away in the dark recesses of their minds, the ones that even they have probably forgotten about.

You have exhumed the skeletons in their closets, but you can’t get a single detail about Moran.

You bombed the last test and put on your best sniveling, puppy-dog expression to get him to arrange a private time to come to his office, which he had begrudgingly agreed to.

But now you’ve dropped the act, your eyes roaming across every surface.

Once again, your blood runs cold and you can’t find the source.

Moran looks up from his desk.

“Get on with it,” he snarls.

“Oh, just perusing,” you say as you clasp your hand behind your back, because you haven’t really thought far ahead enough to plan what you’d actually be saying one you crossed the threshold. You had been too consumed by your ridiculous fantasies that could get you expelled and him arrested.

Those are the best kinds of fantasies.

“I failed my exam,” you state bluntly.

“I graded it,” Moran says, his voice guarded. “You missed every single question. I’m surprised you spelled your name correctly.” You hear him shift, and the pen drops. “So tell me, Jim, how is it that you go from the top of your class crashing down to a zero percent?” You hear the sound of a desk drawer sliding open, and your eyes rest upon a particularly gruesome painting of a flayed corpse.

“All your work is flawless. You just never seem to state the right answer.” Moran thrusts the paper accusingly across the desktop.

You shrug, allowing a grin to play on your face.

“Maybe I’ve been struck with a case of testophobia,” you quip. “I thought you might be able to cure it.” You look up, glancing at Moran’s face withering into a surprised scowl. Your eyes slide past his expression, onto the display hanging up behind him.

You cross the room, and you feel a strange sensation swelling in your stomach as you brush right past his desk.

There it is.

“This skeleton. It’s not right.” You frown, staring at it. It isn’t a cheap model, the kind where you can see the seams from the plastic mold. But then again he wouldn’t expect something so clownish from Professor Moran.

“The ribcage is too close to the cranium,” you note. You feel a strong hand on your arm, but you continue. “Almost as if it’s missing some parts.” You do a quick count, and break out into a grin.

You turn to face your teacher, who’s looking at you as if you have your own personal spotlight.

“It’s missing two vertebrae,” you note, staring unflinchingly into his scowl.

And you know that he’s waiting for you to piece it together, but you already have, a month ago when the attack happened.

You had walked into school the next day, before the news reporters were even on the scene and you could tell that there was something different about Moran.

Only after class was over, well into the afternoon, had you heard about the attack, with the missing receptionist and the pool of blood in the parking lot containing two vertebrae from the back of her neck.

You crowd into the man’s personal space, sitting on the edge of the immaculate desk and leaning across until your face is centimeters away from the professors.

“Tell me what it felt like,” you whisper, staring at Moran with eyes as wide as saucers.

The man stares right back at you, and you realize that you aren’t the only psychopath in the room.

He places a hand on the back of your neck, his thumb kneading the two bones at the base of your skull.

“It was better than getting head,” he says, and he crashes his lips against yours.

He thinks he’s going to consume you in every way possible.

But you know he’s wrong.


End file.
